


She's Beauty, She's Grace (She'll Punch You In The Face)

by slipsthrufingers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Agents, Alternate Universe - Miss Congeniality Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Miss Westeros Pageant, bikinis and sashes and tiaras, body image issues, oh my
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2020-10-19 21:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 65,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20663693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipsthrufingers/pseuds/slipsthrufingers
Summary: When the Miss Westeros pageant receives a terrorist threat, Agent Brienne Tarth finds herself in the most difficult deep cover she's ever been: beauty queen. As if her job isn't already hard enough, now she has to do it in heels and a ballgown.The Miss Congeniality!AU we all wanted.





	1. Prologue

Banner by [Nire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nire/pseuds/nire)

The Dothraki restaurant was the type of place that people only came to if they didn’t care about health code violations. The vinyl floor was a distinctive brown colour that had clearly once been white but had never been mopped, and the formica booth Brienne sat at was chipped and peeling. To add insult to injury, some sort of traditional Dothraki screamer music was playing just a mite too loud to be considered ‘atmospheric’, and after two hours of listening to it, she felt the urge to scream herself. But despite the completely inhospitable conditions of _Vo Hrazef Gavat_, there was a surprising number of people in the establishment.

Brienne was there, of course, dressed in a shapeless hoodie and sweats, looking every bit the disinterested student, with reading glasses perched on her nose and a thick, hardcover copy of _The Great Grass Sea_ in her hands. Next to her was a yellow-legal pad filled with notes, scrawled and messy. 

In a booth a little way away from Brienne, there was an uncomfortable looking couple. She suspected that they’d wanted to leave within five minutes of their arrival, but were too polite, or possibly scared, to ask for the cheque. Brienne pitied them.

There was also a waitress bussing tables, there in body but not in mind or soul. She had not noticed that Brienne’s water glass was empty.

Every now and then the cook appeared at the service window, far too hairy to be without a hair-net, and glowered at the occasional delivery boy who arrived with phone in hand to pick up an app order. 

“_Eyes on the door. Drogo incoming_,” Selmy’s voice barked in her ear. It was only thanks to her years of training that she did not flinch. Instead she moved the book into one hand and used her free hand to shovel another forkful of curry into her mouth. It was over salted, and the meat was questionable, but the microscopic camera buried in the book’s spine now had a good shot of the door.

And soon enough, the bell hanging above the door rang as one of the tallest men Brienne had ever seen—taller than her, even— pushed his way into the restaurant. Khal Drogo was an intimidating, hairy man, all lats and delts and with a thick, black braid down his back. His beard had been trimmed into a point, but it was his eyes that unsettled her. There was no life in those black, beady things. The eyes of a sociopath.

“_Ezat Zollo,_” Drogo spat at the waitress, who had frozen in place while haphazardly wiping down one of the other tables. She stood quickly and bowed her head deferentially, before scurrying back out into the kitchen.

“_Lannister, any movement at the back door?_” Selmy asked.

“_Negative. Just me and the alley cats out here_.”

“_Let us know as soon as you see anything_.”

“_Copy._”

Brienne forced herself to stay focused on her cover, despite every inch of her quivering to reach for the gun in her ankle-holster. Khal Drogo was one of the most despicable men she’d ever had the displeasure to learn about. His khalasar was implicated in all sorts of nasty things: trafficking, drugs— intelligence had even linked him directly to funding a series of terrorist attacks in Meereen. Thousands had died and it had sparked another war on his home continent, and the chaos wrecked in the city had made it all the easier for him to conduct his nefarious business.

And that was just his organisation. He himself had been linked to several violent deaths and several rapes, though his victims had been far too terrified to press charges. They all feared retaliation, and by all reports something horrific and _final_ was likely to happen to them if they did take the stand against him.

It made Brienne’s blood boil. It was times like this that she wished she were more religious. _All men must die_, the words of the Faceless God rang in her ears. Men were scum.

“_Movement out the back._” Jaime’s voice broke through her raging inner monologue. “_Black car arrived. Two men getting out. Zollo, and another man. Can’t get a positive ID_, _light out here is too shit. Tall, slim build, has some sort of necklace…_”

"Vargo Hoat, maybe?” Brienne murmured into the pages of her book. Drogo often got the Brave Companions to do his dirtier work, and if he was meeting Zollo, it stood to reason that Hoat would be leading his dog on a leash.

“_Could be_.” She could hear the tension in his voice. She fidgeted with her fork, but did not eat any more, moving food around the plate.

“_Everyone stay alert,_” Selmy barked. “_Hyle, we need you in position now._”

“_Copy,_” Hyle said.

In the meantime, Drogo had claimed a seat on the other side of the restaurant to Brienne’s booth, at a table far too small for one such as him. His legs sprawled out underneath the table, unable and unwilling to fit in the space the chair afforded. The waitress had returned from the kitchen and had already brought him a large jug of dark beer and a glass. Drogo ignored the glass and hooked the jug with his meaty palm and drank straight from it.

He slammed it back on the table, splashing beer across the freshly-wiped table, and onto the waitress, who was still standing nearby. Drogo didn’t care. He turned and spat at the waitress. “_Finne ajjin Zollo?_”

She paled, and said meekly, “_Mae et vo jadat._”

Drogo growled, actually growled, then waved her away dismissively. _“Fichat gavat, chiori._”

The doorbell rang again, and Hyle walked in wearing the same kind of outfit all the delivery boys in this area wore: long compression tights and tee to match, with a water-proof windbreaker with reflective strips over the top. On his head was a lurid purple bicycle helmet, and he had his phone in his hand. He approached the counter and the waitress looked between Drogo and Hyle, a deer caught in the headlights. 

The waitress made the right choice and ignored Hyle to head straight out the back to get Drogo’s requested food. A disgruntled delivery boy was the least of her problems. Hyle, for his part, looked apathetic. He plugged his headphones in his ears and leaned up against the glass wall, as though he was used to waiting for slow vendors to sort out their orders.

The doors to the kitchen banged open, and two men walked in. She was right. Vargo Hoat_ had _come with Zollo. All the very worst men in the world were here in this room with her. A weaker woman would have done anything in her power to _leave_, or worse, would have frozen in fear. But Brienne had a job to do. She couldn’t be _weak_. She took another bite of the curry and kept her book trained on the meeting.

“Confirmed. Vargo Hoat,” Hyle said, barely audible, bending down to retie his shoelace.

“_Be careful_, _agents. Let’s see how this plays out,_” Selmy said cautiously. Brienne’s stomach roiled, every single hair on the back of her neck was raised. Her heart thumped so loud it was almost distracting, and she forced herself to breathe, to calm. This was her _job_.

Hoat and Zollo walked straight over to Drogo’s table. There was a tense moment, with Drogo staring at the two men through hooded eyes. Finally, he turned to Zollo, and said flatly, “_Kifindirgi tat yer fichat Hoat? Disse yer hash tat jadat._”

Zollo glanced at Hoat, and shrugged, “_Mae et was arrekoon _the Stranger.”

Then there was a silence that stretched, impossibly, uncomfortably long. The screamer music, which had played relentlessly for hours, stopped at that precise moment, and even the waitress seemed too scared to go and restart the album the way she had twice already. Finally, Drogo waved at the other men, gesturing for them to sit opposite him at the table, then waved at the waitress to bring out more beer. The tension eased somewhat as Zollo and Hoat sat. Three huge men at the world’s smallest table. It would have been comical, if it weren’t so terrifying.

“_Tat yer zhorre me_,” Drogo asked Zollo, once the drinks had been delivered.

Zollo jutted his head back at the door they’d entered through, “_Mra irge_.”

“_Hash san?_”

“_Sen ken._”

Brienne couldn’t follow the entire conversation; she had only a rudimentary understanding of the language. Enough to know they were discussing terms, but the specifics would have to wait until the real translators got ahold of the recording. Mostly she watched the body language of the three men, watching for danger, waiting for Selmy to give the order.

They seemed to be wrapping up the deal. All three men were smiling now, enjoying their beers. Hoat reached out his hand to Drogo to shake, and the Khal took it with a kind of languid disinterest. It was then that Hoat’s demeanour changed. Brienne could see from here how tightly he gripped Drogo’s hand.

“_Allow elat anni che yer tikh assilat yeri qorraya,_” Drogo spat. Brienne could see his hackles rising from here. The room felt suddenly freezing. Something was _very_ wrong here.

“The Stranger_ et vitihirat yer. Mae vitihirat yeri melat. Yer tikh tikh athannithar._”

“Zollo has a weapon,” Hyle hissed, and Brienne cursed. How had she not seen that? 

The arakh gleamed in the fluorescent light, pulled from a sheath at the small of his back which had been covered by his baggy clothes. Zollo had pulled it out discreetly, so Drogo could not see, but it was impossible to hide from Brienne and Hyle from where they stood behind the men. 

Drogo yanked his hand back, hard, pulling Hoat towards him. “_Ki fin yen._"

“They’re going to kill each other.” Brienne breathed, heart beating loudly.

“_Do not engage!_” Selmy barked. “_Keep recording!_”

It was an order, yes, but an impossible one for her to follow. It was her job, to serve and protect, and that extended to the worst criminals too. No one deserved to die violently, not even Khal Drogo. Not to mention if he died here, all of the men, women and children who he’d victimised over the years would never get to see their justice served. They would never get to look him in the eye and have him acknowledge how he had hurt them. She could not let that happen.

She could not stand by.

“_Brienne_!” Jaime cried in her ear, but she ignored him, Selmy, even Hyle who was looking at her with panic in his eyes. She pulled her gun from her holster, pushed her hoodie back from her face and stood, pointing the gun at the three men.

“Freeze!” she ordered. “KBI. Drop your weapons.”

Hyle had his gun out too, though he looked deeply agitated and pale. This was supposed to be a surveillance mission only. No confrontation. Well, too bad, Hunt.

“_Tarth, what are you doing?_” Selmy said frantically in her earpiece. “_You had no order!”_

“_Graddakh vineesi,_” Zollo said to her, venomously, raising the arakh high in the air above Drogo.

“_All agents, converge on the restaurant._”

“Drop your weapons!” Hyle repeated, pointing his gun emphatically at the three men. “Hands up!”

Brienne fired. The bullet hit the arakh, knocking it from Zollo’s hand. And that was when it all went to hell. Hoat leaped at her, teeth gnashing like some sort of rabid animal. He didn’t seem to care she had a gun in her hand, and luck was on his side, because her next shot went wide and he tackled her hard, knocking her gun across the floor.

She struggled against him, as his hands went for her throat, her eyes, trying to inflict as much damage as he could, as quickly as he could. He got a few good punches in, including one to the cheek that made her see stars. But she was bigger than he was, and stronger, and she hadn’t been on the wrestling team in high school for nothing. Her legs found purchase against the edge of the bench seat and she pushed her hips up, flipping them over ’til he was underneath her, and it was the work of half a heartbeat to restrain his arms behind his back. She sat her full weight down on his lower back and smushed his face into the disgusting vinyl floor, before looking up to take stock of the rest of the fight. 

A few other agents had arrived and were assisting Hyle to subdue Zollo and Drogo. The couple at the neighbouring table were cowering underneath it, and were probably swearing off all foreign food for the rest of their lives. The waitress was in the corner, screaming, as Selmy himself was telling her to put her hands up.

None of them saw the cook emerge from the kitchen and retrieve Brienne’s gun. The double doors behind him were still swinging, almost in slow motion. He raised the gun, pointing it directly between her eyes, and fired.

There was a bang, and a scream of agonised pain. But it wasn’t her. _Jaime_. Where had he come from? 

He was lying on the floor, cradling his hand to his chest, and even from here she could see the mess of blood and bone and _oh god_ a finger was on the floor, and…

Another shot. The cook collapsed to the ground. Dead. Hyle’s gun was smoking. Jaime still screamed.

This was all her fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to come yell at me on [tumblr](http://https://slipsthrufingers.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Thank you to Luthien and Nire for the beta help, and to Nire specifically for the title.


	2. Chapter 1 - The Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some months after the disastrous Dothraki job, Jaime is back at work. A terrorist makes a threat.

Brienne was running late. It was her day to get coffee for the rest of the office and the line at the coffee shop had been unusually long. Not to mention it always took a long time for the poor baristas to process twelve different, tailored coffee orders. It made her feel guilty, so she always left a more than generous tip behind.

Once she had the coffees, it was a trial and a half to get them back to work while making sure they remained piping hot and without spilling milk throughout her car. It was less that she cared about the upholstery in her car— Hyle and Ron and the rest would definitely make a fuss if their coffees had spilled though. She’d just had quite enough of their snide comments about her ability to do her job, and she was determined not to give them an inch, or they’d take a mile.

Not that getting coffee was _strictly_ part of her job description. But it was part of being a member of a _team_, which, as Selmy liked to remind her, she needed to get a little better at.

So she shuffled as quickly as she could to the elevator while perching the coffee trays in her hands; one was stacked on top of another which made for quite the balancing act. She poked the up arrow by bending over and using her elbow, then she waited patiently, watching the little floor numbers for the various elevators count up and down. It was a good distraction to try to predict which one would arrive first, rather than worry about how she would be received when she finally arrived on the correct floor.

Because it wasn’t just her day for coffee. It was Lannister’s first day back at work after the… incident. She closed her eyes and willed the all-too-vivid memory back into the little pocket of her brain that she chose to keep it in. She had made a bad call that day, and it had resulted in an unnecessary death and the horrific injury of a fellow agent. That was a burden she would carry with her for the rest of her life. If she had just waited to act, as Selmy had ordered, or even if she had acted differently. If she had checked behind her, had kept eyes on all the parties in the restaurant. If she had kept ahold of her gun.

The elevator dinged, and it was a welcome distraction from her spiralling thoughts. She took a deep breath, gathered her wits about her and bustled in behind another agent in a suit. He had the same sharp look of an agent straight out of a cable TV show, in a dark blue suit and tie, and clean white shirt. He looked up from his phone, still somewhat distracted by what looked like a hookup app, saw her arms laden with coffee, and asked, “Which floor?”

“Seventeen, please,” she said, trying her best to sound simply grateful and not desperate. She gave him a tentative smile, but he simply raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement, pressed ’17’ and ’23’ and the close arrows, then returned his attention to his phone.

Brienne tried not to be deflated. He was just busy, and he had been polite enough to offer to press the button for her, rather than ignoring her, as so often happened since the incident. Instead of beleaguering the point, she checked her reflection in the mirrored surface of the elevator doors. Standing next to the other agent made her look like a bad, crumpled photocopy of the original. He wore his suit well; it was pressed, and suited his build and it gave him an air of authority that she so often craved. She too was wearing a suit, in almost the same colour as his. It was tight in some places and far too loose in others, but it was the only thing that was large enough for her that still fit within the dress code standards. And since it was the only suit she had, it had seen better days. It was a little crumpled, and needed a good dry-clean and press by someone with something a bit more powerful than her cheap iron. 

But she was clean, at least. Her hair was pulled back into a messy bun—her curls were the bane of her existence and she hadn’t had time to make it to a hairdresser. Not that they ever really improved on the situation, just tamed it for a while. Her cheeks were red and flushed from hurrying about, but no matter what she looked like, she was still an agent. The badge in her pocket said so, and if people didn’t believe that, the gun in her shoulder holster would convince them. If she didn’t look as professional as some of the others she worked with, then so what? 

The elevator slowed, dinged, and the doors opened. There wasn’t time to take another fortifying breath, even though she felt she sorely needed it, but she stepped out onto her floor anyway.

It was usually fairly quiet at this time of morning, but today was different. Agents and support staff hurried about the floor, carrying paperwork and tablets, and one very narrowly avoided running into her, which would’ve meant a veritable waterfall of coffee spilling all over her white shirt. Luckily the man had quick feet and stepped around her. Phones were ringing off the hook, and it seemed that most of the office, the ones not frantically collecting information about… whatever, were congregating in the conference room. 

Brienne headed directly there. She had everyone’s coffees, after all, and she had just as much of a right to be in the room as everyone else. She wasn’t suspended any longer, wasn’t even on probation. It was just a normal day, even if it _was_ Lannister’s first day back.

She shouldered the door to the conference room open, and immediately people turned to see who had entered. A few eyes brightened at the coffee trays she held in her hands, and she was immediately accosted by several caffeine-starved men in suits who took the trays from her and distributed the coffees around the room to their appropriate owners. She snatched her own peppermint tea from the last tray before it was conveyed to the other side of the room where Hyle and Ron were sitting. She held the paper cup to her lips, breathing in the fragrant aroma when a hand tugged on her elbow, and she turned, and… 

_Jaime._

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said softly, reaching across her with his left hand to collect his own cup — an iced, sugary monstrosity that was more suited to a teenage girl than a KBI agent.

“J-Jaime,” she stammered, and for an agonising moment she locked eyes with him. The same intense, intelligent green they’d always been and they were not looking at her with disdain, or anger, like she’d expected. They seemed… 

“All right, agents,” Selmy said, in a loud commanding voice from behind a podium at the front of the room, thankfully interrupting Brienne’s misery.

The general hubbub in the room died down, and Selmy started to speak. “Thank you for being here on such short notice. Before we begin, I’d like to welcome back Jaime Lannister into the fold. He’s going to be taking more of an administrative role, given the circumstances, but I’m sure we’re all glad to see him back in the office once more.”

He led a round of applause which Jaime acknowledged with a nod and a tilt of his hazelnut iced coffee. Brienne clapped along politely, while resolutely choosing to look at his collar and not at his face. She felt terribly sure that if she looked at his eyes again she would do something embarrassing, like cry, or vomit, or apologise.

But the applause died down, and Selmy continued on, in a more serious tone this time, “As I’m sure a few of you are aware, we received another message from The Stranger today.”

Selmy clicked his remote and a scanned letter appeared on the screen behind him. It was typed, though erratically, with no discernible pattern to be seen. Words were clumped in pairs or fours, but to read it aloud would sound like the delusions of a madman having a stroke. 

The agents in the room all began to speak at once, some muttering to their neighbour, some making little noises of disgruntlement to themselves. Brienne’s stomach tightened uncomfortably and she stood a little straighter, shuffling from one foot to the other. 

The Stranger, the infamous terrorist, had claimed responsibility for the bombing of the Sept of Baelor that had killed hundreds, and what the press had called ‘The Red Wedding’—a mass poisoning at The Twins the year before. They had been linked to other atrocities as well, car bombings in Pyke, the assassination of Senator Jon Arryn, though nothing had been definitively proven. What made it worse was that despite a years-long investigation, the KBI still knew almost nothing about The Stranger. They didn’t know if it was one person, or a group, let alone whether it was a man or woman. All the KBI knew was that they were likely an anarchist, had a penchant for codes, and was almost entirely unpredictable.

Every single man and woman in the room had heard of The Stranger and had fantasised about being the agent to finally bring them down. Even Brienne had, in her darkest moments, considered whether cuffing The Stranger would be enough to have her colleagues see her as their equal again, and as capable and worthy of the badge.

“The letter is with our cryptographers at the moment, though as I’m sure you’ll all aware, he never uses the same cipher twice, so we have to brace for the possibility that we won’t crack it in time to forestall whatever action he has planned.”

Selmy changed the slides, and old headlines filled the screen. _BAELOR SINGS FOR THE STRANGER_, and _30 DEAD AT RED WEDDING: THE STRANGER CLAIMS RESPONSIBILITY_. Something in Brienne’s memory faintly twinged, like deja vu. Not strong enough for an epiphany, but insight, just outside of her reach. She scrunched her nose and chased the thought, willing it to become clearer, but it was gone as soon as it had come. A wisp of smoke. Was this what gut instinct felt like?

“What we do know is that he likes to create a splash and keep his agenda in the media as long as he can, and if we don’t get on top of this fast there will be a lot of deaths on our hands. I’ve assigned tasks to you all. If you have relevant experience you’ve been seconded to crypto to back them up. Everyone else, your assignments are here.” He changed the slides and a list of names and tasks appeared on the screen. “As you can see, I’m assigning Lannister as lead on this one. It might be your first day back, son, but you showed great gut instinct on that last op, and we need intuition like yours on a case like this.”

Brienne shot a glance to her left to see Jaime faintly blushing with the rare praise. She watched him stiffen, but then he raised his chin and his eyes brightened. In half a heartbeat he exuded confidence. “Won’t let you down sir,” he said, and even sounded like he meant it.

* * *

The day went by with a kind of anxious tedium. The work she was doing was, at best, boring busy-work, compiling a list of possible events and people The Stranger might target. It was about as productive as looking for a needle in a haystack. They’d never attacked the same sort of event twice, and their targets had been everything from individuals to indiscriminate violence inflicted on crowds. Their goal was chaos and death, nothing more, nothing less. Assessing whether or not they were likely to disrupt the upcoming peace summit between Yunkai, Meereen and Astapor hardly seemed worth it. 

Brienne knew, in her heart of hearts, that their only hope to stop The Stranger was to crack that letter. She’d downloaded a copy of it off the intranet and during her breaks she had read it over and over and over again, hoping that something would jump out at her and scream _this is it_, but no such luck. She had never been any good at cryptography. Why she thought she’d be able to figure this out when the experts had so far failed, she couldn’t say.

But it had helped to keep her busy, which is what she wanted to be. If she was busy, then it gave her an excuse not to talk to the other agents around her. Not that anyone was rushing to get her take on the situation. It might have bothered her, once, that her colleagues so easily ignored her, but the few times she had looked up from her work it seemed like Jaime had always been _right there_, reminding her of her complete and utter failure of judgement. No, Selmy was right. It was better than she just do as she was told for a little while. He’d told her to identify targets, so that’s what she was doing. She ignored the budding headache blossoming behind her eyes.

She was in the middle of compiling a profile on an upcoming car show—Xaro Xhoan Daxos would be launching his new electric car there, and that would definitely draw a crowd—when a sandwich dropped from the other side of her desk partition, making her jump in surprise.

“You haven’t eaten,” Jaime said, grabbing the free chair from the booth next to hers and dragging it over far enough that she had to shuffle a bit to the side to give him room. He pulled another sandwich from somewhere and began to unwrap it, seemingly intending to share her desk with her to eat his lunch.

She checked the time on her computer. Three o’clock. When_ had_ she last eaten? The roaring beast of her stomach uncurled and began to grumble, as if woken by the realisation of what time it was. Perhaps that was why she had a headache.

“I was going to get something,” she said half-heartedly, unwrapping the sandwich while avoiding his gaze.

Jaime scoffed, then took a gigantic bite of his own. “No you weren’t,” he said through the mouthful of food. It should have been disgusting, but instead she was far more embarrassed that he had so thoroughly called her out.

So instead of arguing further, she took a bite of the chicken salad sandwich. For a few moments, they ate in silence; Brienne intent on her food, and Jaime intent on reading the half-written report on her screen. He had always been on the snoopy side, always wanting to know what she was working on, what she thought about this or that. At first she had been wary of his interest—he had been so arrogant and dismissive of her when they’d first met—but over time she’d gotten used to it, and his commentary, which had at first felt mocking, now felt more good-humoured. Genuine.

“The Qaarth Car Show?” he asked, once he’d finally swallowed.

She shrugged. “They’re launching a new model _Tourmaline_ there next week. Daxos has been bragging about it on twitter. I figured The Stranger might want to bring his ego down a few pegs.”

Jaime pursed his lips and nodded to the side, acknowledging the soundness of her logic. “Seems as likely as anything else.” 

Silence fell between them again and he took another bite of his sandwich. Brienne chanced a look at his hand—the injured hand. The surgeons had tried to reattach the finger that had been shot off, but the damage had been too extensive, and they’d ended up having to amputate another to save him from painful nerve damage. Hyle had told her all about it. The remaining fingers and thumb could hold the sandwich up well enough, but he’d never be able to hold a gun with that hand, not unless he got a prosthetic. He’d need to qualify for his gun licence again, six for six shots in the bullseye, before he would have a chance of returning to fieldwork. Maybe he could retrain with his left, but it would be hard. He’d been one of the best field agents in the Bureau before she’d ruined it all, and now he was going to be here, stuck on desk duty for the rest of his life…

“Stop thinking so loudly and enjoy your sandwich,” Jaime said, interrupting her train of thought. She looked up, and looked into his eyes for the first time in what felt like months. There was compassion in those green eyes, empathy she did not deserve from him, of all people.

She took a deep breath. “Jaime, I’m—”

“Don’t,” he said, holding up his broken hand, keeping a tight hold of his sandwich with the other. She could see the silvery scars more clearly now, and the deep sense of _guilt_ bubbled up from within. He continued on, “If you’re going to apologise, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want it, I don’t need it.”

She frowned, and was about to protest. _She_ had been the reason he’d been so grievously injured. She _should_ apologise. If the situation was reversed, she would want one from him. She had ended his _career_. 

Jaime’s eyes were serious. He wiggled his remaining fingers at her. “This was not your fault, Brienne. It was mine. I made my choice, and if I hadn’t, then—”

But whatever else it was he was going to say, Brienne didn’t find out. At that moment, Ron called out loudly across the office, interrupting their conversation, “Lannister!! Lannister, crypto cracked the letter!”

Jaime set his sandwich down on her desk and stood up. He straightened, squared his shoulders, and looked every bit the division chief he was likely to be within five years.

“It’s the Miss Westeros pageant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this has been overwhelming and positive! Thank you to everyone who commented, kudosed, liked, reblogged or interacted with this in any way. I'm on holidays for two weeks now, so I'm hoping to work on and post the next few chapters a little bit more quickly. Stalk me on [tumblr](http://slipsthrufingers.tumblr.com) for more updates.
> 
> Thank you to Luthien and Nire, as always, for the beta help and encouragement <3


	3. Chapter 2 - The Assignment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne is assigned a task she doesn't want and she and Jaime meet with the Competition Director of the Miss Westeros pageant.

Once the letter was translated, and the threat to the Miss Westeros pageant confirmed, the rest of the day went by in a whirlwind. A crazy whirlwind. The type of whirlwind that belonged in a movie about a pretty young girl who was whisked away in her house by a raging tornado and dumped unceremoniously in a dream-like world, with snarks, and grumpkins and gold brick roads. 

Because once they had identified the target, they had started formulating a plan to address the threat. Brienne had felt that it would be best to cancel the thing entirely, neutralising the threat by taking away the target, but as Selmy pointed out, they were unlikely to get this opportunity to catch The Stranger again. And serendipity was on their side. Jaime’s second-cousin had won the competition years ago and now worked for the pageant, holding a position fairly high-up in the organisation. It would make coordinating with the organisers much easier with a contact already on the inside. 

Once that was sorted, the strategising began, which Brienne took a backseat to. Later, while lying in bed that night, she would wonder if she could have changed things by speaking up earlier. If she could have prevented this situation from unfolding, simply by being a little more open with her thoughts.

Because someone suggested that, while having Cersei Baratheon looped in to the investigation, what would _really_ help the investigation would be to have an _agent_ on the inside. An agent who would have access to all the backstage areas, as well as one-on-one access to all the key players in the organisation. They would need a female field agent, between the ages of 25 and 35, with enough experience to work under-cover with minimal support. On the surface that seemed easy enough, but once they started looking at the field, it became clear that their pool of candidates was quite a small one.

And that was when things went from being a dream-like whirlwind, to a nightmarish hurricane.

“What about Brienne?” Jaime suggested, nodding her way in the meeting. 

She blinked, and shook her head, something heavy in her stomach dropping with hurt that he, of all people, would mock her like this in front of so many people. “Very funny.”

And it _was _funny, because Hyle and Ron both started chuckling openly. But Jaime didn’t.

“I’m serious,” he said, his green eyes intent on her. Inescapable. “You meet the criteria. You’re already looped in on the op. It should be you.”

Panic began to set in then. There were far too many people looking at her. She crossed her arms and stood tall, feeling her hackles rising. “There must be someone else,” she said, and then without a thought, added, “I am not pretty enough for a job like this.”

At the front Ron failed to contain his laugh. It sounded like a gunshot, and was just as painful. Any other day Brienne would have done something about it, but right now his scepticism was helping her argument. She would look like an utter goblin amongst the women at a beauty pageant. 

But Jaime was no longer looking at her, but at Ron. There was something quite poisonous in the look he gave the other man. Ron stopped laughing. 

Pia, one of the few other female agents in the room, raised her hand tentatively. She’d been eliminated from consideration early, given that she was five months along with her first child. Jaime dragged his attention away from Ron to her, and nodded for her to say her piece.

Pia turned to speak directly to Brienne. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’d be as out of place as you think. I’ve been watching the pageant with my mum for years. They faced a lot of criticism from feminist groups about perpetuating an outdated and unrealistic view of femininity and so in the last few years they have really tried to become more inclusive and diverse. A few years ago a woman with vitiligo won!” 

Yes, a woman with a dramatic skin condition was precisely the same as being six foot three with the kind of face and body that seemed better suited to repel predators than to attract a mate.

“Yes, you’re unique!” Jaime said, jabbing his finger in Pia’s direction, happy to have more support in the room. 

“The only way I’d fit in on that stage would be with a lot of plastic surgery, and we don’t have that kind of time,” Brienne said as calmly as she could manage, despite her racing heart and every single fibre of her body wanting to _get out_ just _leave. _

“My daughter follows a bunch of make-up artists on YouTube who do amazing things to transform their faces. Men can look like women, women can look like monkeys, you name it, someone has used makeup to look like it,” Mullendore added, and Brienne heard the note of mockery in his voice. _Even you, a mannish woman, could be transformed by foundation and blush._

Brienne could feel the red flush blooming in her cheeks, the sweat at the base of her spine, and worst of all, tears brewing behind her eyes. She wanted to reach into her pocket and pull out her KBI badge. _I am an agent_, she would say. _You can’t make me do this_. Every eye in the room was on her, watching her reaction, watching her humiliation. There was _no way_ that this could be happening to her. She had left behind this kind of mortification when she’d left high school. 

She could not do this again. She _would not_ do this again.

She reared up to her full height, easily the tallest in the room. It helped some. “I don’t want to.” She said it as firmly as she could, glaring at Jaime for _putting_ her in this situation.

But Selmy had been there the whole time, watching. He uncrossed his legs, and stared her down. He was her only chance—if he didn’t want her doing it, she wouldn’t have to do it, she—

“You don’t have a choice. You’re qualified. You’ll do it.” Selmy said. It felt like an order of execution. It would be better to die, or be fired. Perhaps she should just quit.

“But sir,” she pleaded, stepping towards the older man.

But there was no sympathy there, not from him, not to her. “We’re running out of time and that’s an order,” he said, then he turned to Jaime. “Lannister, set up a meeting with that cousin of yours. Tarth will go with you. Loop them in on the investigation and see what they can offer in the way of help to get her up to scratch.”

Nausea bubbled up within her, and she gritted her teeth against it. The tears still felt imminent, but they were tempered by the very strong need to be anywhere except in this room, with everyone staring at her. 

She gritted her teeth and stared at the ceiling. “Fine.”

There was an awkward, agonising silence in the room that stretched far longer than any horrible moment Brienne had ever experienced, and she had experienced many in her life. She wanted to leave. She wanted to be anywhere but here. She needed… what did she need?

“All right,” Jaime said eventually, sounding oddly uncertain to her ears. “I need the schedule for the pageant, all the events, blueprints to all the venues, profiles on all the contestants, the staff of the competition. An event like this, we’re probably looking at a bomb or a shooter or something else that would cause a lot of damage at once so we’re going to need increased security and surveillance. If anyone spots anything even remotely suspicious about anyone, or any big flaws in the security, flag it for review. I’ll see if I can get better access tomorrow when I meet with Cersei. Pia, since you seem to have a bit of working knowledge already, you can assign specific roles to the team, and I’ll check in with you. Any questions?”

He waited, but everyone seemed to understand his instructions well enough. “We’ll meet back here at eight. I want preliminary reports by then.”

The moment they were dismissed, Brienne left the room, departing quickly before Jaime could grab her. She wanted to be alone right now, and there was no chance of that happening if she stayed in this building.

“Brienne,” he called, as she reached the elevators. She smashed the down button fiercely, praying to any god that would hear her for the damn thing to come _now_.

Of course they didn’t hear, or if they did, they didn’t listen to someone such as her. Jaime caught up to her through the crowd and grabbed her by the shoulder. 

She rolled out from under his hand, shaking him off. “Don’t touch me.”

He held his palms up in surrender. It only made her want to punch him more. She wished that they were in the gym, that he had his hand back. She wanted it to be a fair fight when she laid him out flat. Instead, she turned aside, and smashed the elevator buttons again. The little green arrow above the doors began to flash, and the numbers began to count up. It wouldn’t be long.

“Let’s talk about this, Brienne,” he tried, sounding infuriatingly conciliatory, or like he was trying to calm some sort of rabid animal. 

“And say what?” she said, not bothering to keep the bitterness from her voice. “You heard Selmy, I have no choice.”

“It won’t be so bad! There will be people to help you, and you are one of the best agents I’ve ever worked with. I wouldn’t have suggested you if I didn’t believe you could do it.” 

“That’s not—” and she stopped mid-word, her fury making it impossible for her to speak, let alone get her thoughts in order. She took a deep breath in through her nose. Her nostrils flared. She glared at the elevator doors, then back at Jaime. “‘Unique’ is not a compliment.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I didn’t suggest you to be mean, I thought—”

“You _didn’t think_.” She whirled on him then, unable to contain it any longer. She jabbed her finger in the direction of the conference room. “Every single person in that room thought I was a joke. Do you know how hard I have had to work to get a _tenth_ of the respect that you get just by walking in the building? People don’t take me seriously, they don’t find me credible. I make _one_ mistake, and look how Selmy treats me! _I will never live this down_.”

The elevator arrived with a ding. Brienne stepped inside and Jaime thrust his hand out to hold the door.

“Brienne—”

She hit the button for the ground floor, then levelled a glare at him that made him stand a little taller, almost, but not quite, of a height with her. “Let me go. I don’t want to look at you right now.”

For a moment, he weathered her gaze, something raw reflected in his bright green eyes, and for an agonising second she felt like a specimen under a microscope. He could see every part of her.

Finally, he said, with all the care and precision of a hostage negotiator, “I’ll set up a meeting with Cersei tomorrow at 9. Is that all right?”

“Is that an order?” she asked, a challenge. Then when he opened his mouth to reply, she rolled her eyes away from his. “I’ll be at the damn meeting.”

There was a beat, a painful beat, then he nodded, removed his hand and stepped back into the foyer. The elevator doors, freed from his obstruction, closed between them, and she was finally, _finally_, alone. 

_Fuck_.

* * *

The next day Brienne found herself waiting for Jaime outside the headquarters of the Miss Westeros pageant, which was conveniently located in the heart of King’s Landing, not far off the Streets of Silk. He wasn’t late, she was just perennially early. She found a wall to hold up near the front entrance, and brooded over the lip of her scorchingly hot peppermint tea. 

She was sure she looked a mess, but she hadn’t bothered looking at her reflection before she’d left that morning to confirm it. She had spent most of the previous night, and all of the morning, fuming about the situation she was in, and therefore had gotten very little sleep. Subsequently, she was exhausted; the bags under her eyes had bags of their own, which she concealed with dark sunglasses. She had showered that morning, which refreshed her a little, but she didn’t have the energy to blow-dry her hair, so she’d just hoisted the wet mess into a bun that kept most of her hair out of her face. 

What did it matter if she looked the worst she’d ever looked? _They had people for that_. People who would curl her hair, and slather her in makeup, and tut judgmentally while saying things like “This is going to take longer than we thought,” and “Couldn’t they give us something a little easier to work with?” while she just laid there and endured.

Because that was what she would have to do. She would have to endure this. Her father had always told her ‘you can endure anything for ten minutes’, and it was advice that had helped her in some of her worst times. It would be a long series of ten minute intervals over the following few weeks, but she could do it. First she would need to endure seeing Jaime again. If she could endure seeing him in hospital recovering from the injury she was responsible for, then she could endure seeing him now that she was furiously angry with him. 

Her tea had cooled enough for her to drink; the almost-sweet tang helped to somewhat calm her frayed nerves, though what she really needed was something solid in her stomach for breakfast. She would need to grab something after the meeting or else risk her feelings becoming even more volatile and _public_ than they had the previous day. And she could not have that.

A sleek black town car parked just in front of the building. He was a little early, but this was his meeting, after all. It would not do to be late. She watched as he got out of the car, looking as professional and handsome as ever in one of his impeccably tailored suits. He too was wearing sunglasses, though his aviators were probably worth about as much as the jacket she had on. She’d gotten her outfit at _Big and Tall_ and had never bothered to find herself a tailor who would adjust her shirts to accommodate her meagre bust, so she just got the next size up, which made her seem even bigger than she actually was. Instead she focussed on doing the best job she could, so that hopefully she could rise above people’s first, shallow impressions of her.

And now here she was, being pushed forward, literally to be judged on the one thing that she had no control over. Her looks. It felt like a living nightmare.

Jaime scanned around, and she could tell the moment he finally spotted her. Something tensed in his shoulders, but to his credit, he walked directly to her. “You’re here,” he said, and checked his watch.

“I said I would be,” she said, unable to sound anything but resentful.

He nodded, slowly, and let out a long breath of air. “I’m sure they’re already there waiting. We should just go in.”

She shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

For a moment, he seemed like he wanted to say something further. She could see it in the tight press of his lips, but right now there was nothing that he could say to her that would make her feel any better, nor did she particularly want to ease his conscience. She wanted him to _feel_ guilty, if that was what he was feeling. Perhaps that was vindictive. She didn’t care.

Maybe she needed to be a little more vindictive.

Instead of letting him lead the way into the building, she pushed herself off the wall, swigged the last few mouthfuls of her tea, and tossed the cup into the nearest rubbish bin, a good five or so meters away. It arched high in the air, but she always hit her target.

“How do you never miss?” Jaime asked, a few steps behind her, trying to catch up.

She rolled her eyes, and didn’t answer. He put on a little burst of speed, getting ahead of her just in time to grab the door handle and hold it open wide for her. The little act of chivalry made her scowl even more. Could she not open her own doors now too? Was this what it was going to be like to be a beauty queen?

“I can open a door,” she said sourly, ducking inside and removing her sunglasses, though she immediately regretted it. The foyer was a very bright, airy space, all minimalism and clean white lines and her eyes were far too tired to adjust so easily to the glare.

“I know you can,” he said, shutting the door behind them. He took off his own glasses and slipped them neatly into his breast pocket, all while surveying the room. There was a receptionist’s desk centered on the far wall, though there was no receptionist to be seen. 

Brienne checked her watch. 8.59 am. She glanced at Jaime who shrugged, and stepped up to the desk. There was a little bell there. He rang it. Brienne remained standing where she was, barely inside the entrance, but one of the photos on the wall beside her drew her attention. It must have been taken at the previous year’s finale. 

A woman stood, jubilant, with a bouquet of flowers large enough that Brienne could see the strain in her muscles where she gripped it tight as though afraid to drop it. Atop her head was a brilliant, gleaming tiara and across her chest was a sash that declared her Miss Westeros. As Pia had said, her dark skin was mottled a stark pinkish white in places, particularly around her mouth and nose— the telltale colouring of a person with vitiligo. But other than that, she looked like she’d walked straight off a catwalk in Braavos. She was tall—but not too tall—and slender. Sample size. Her chocolate-brown hair was curled with effortless precision and shone beautifully under the lights. Her teeth were white and she looked happy. Incandescently happy.

Brienne wasn’t sure she’d ever been that happy in her life.

A door opened somewhere behind her, and she turned to see a young blond man walk in, face buried in some sort of electronic device with those obnoxious little white cordless earphones lodged in his ears. He sat down in the receptionist’s chair and leaned back, without looking up from his phone once. 

Jaime glanced over his shoulder at Brienne, looking vaguely incredulous. Brienne raised an eyebrow back at him. _You’re the boss_, it said. He cleared his throat and the young man finally glanced up, and to his credit seemed a little taken aback to find that he wasn’t as alone as he’d first thought.

“Who’re you?” he asked, sounding very bored. His phone trilled and he returned his attention to the little screen.

“I’m Special Agent Jaime Lannister, this is Special Agent Brienne Tarth, from the Kingsguard Bureau of Investigations. We have an appointment with Cersei Baratheon at nine.” Jaime sounded calm on the surface, professional. But Brienne could hear the sharp edge of his words.

“Ah.” The boy said, not looking up from the screen.

Jaime’s incredulity had faded, and he was now clearly agitated. Brienne stepped forward to stand beside him. She set her shoulders square, and levelled her best stare at the boy. No matter how tired she might feel, she could menace twitty little boys in her sleep.

“It’s nine,” she said, and if her voice was a little deeper than usual, then who was this boy to know.

That made him pause, and he looked up. She pointed at her own ears, then at his. _Take those out._ She said with her even, relentless stare. He did, then sat up a little straighter in his seat and put his phone to the side. But he hadn’t put the screen to sleep properly, so when she spared the thing a glance she saw that, while he had at least paused the video, it showed a still image of a woman lying spread-eagled on a bed with her breasts bared, and a naked man between her legs. Brienne looked back up at the boy and arched her eyebrow once more. _Pornography, really?_ He snatched the phone and shoved it in the drawer, along with the earphones. “Er, yeah? Right. Right,” he said.

There was a veritable flurry of movement from him, then. He pressed at his intercom button, “Mum, er, I mean, Ms Baratheon. Your nine o’clock is here.”

Brienne looked pointedly from the blond boy to the blond man beside her. If Ms Baratheon was Jaime’s second-cousin, then this boy was his… third cousin? Second-cousin once removed? A relative in any case, and she made it clear, without words, just what she thought about the people who shared branches on his family tree.

Jaime rolled his eyes, and probably would’ve said something a little bit more caustic if they were alone. Instead he turned back to the receptionist. “You must be Joffrey, then,” Jaime said. There was something about the way he said it, cool and superior, that made Brienne feel absurdly proud. The boy nodded, a little spooked.

The intercom beeped. “_Send them in_,” a woman’s tinny voice replied. 

Joffrey scrambled to his feet. “If you’ll follow me?”

He guided them through the door he’d entered, which led into an open-plan office. There were many young, attractive 20-somethings working in their various cubicles. Each one looked stressed in their own, pretty way, and were far too busy to spare Jaime and Brienne more than a cursory glance as they were escorted to the large glass-walled office at the far end of the room.

Joffrey opened the door for them and then left them alone with his mother as quickly as he could. Brienne would’ve almost been impressed at his speed, if she wasn’t sure he was only heading back to the front desk to continue watching his video without interruption.

Cersei Baratheon was the spitting image of her cousin. If Jaime were to let his hair grow out and squeezed himself into the white, long-sleeved bodycon dress that Cersei wore, they could easily pass themselves off as twins. They had the same golden blonde hair, the same sharp green eyes. They even had the same nose. Of _course_ she was a past winner, with a face like that. Why wasn’t _Jaime_ the undercover agent for this ridiculous case? If the pageant really was trying to be more diverse, how much more diverse could they be to give a _man_ the chance to win Miss Westeros.

“Jaime!” Cersei cried, moving from behind her desk. “It has been far too long!”

She pulled Jaime into a tight hug and held it for just a fraction longer than Brienne felt was appropriate for reunited, distant cousins. When Jaime pulled back first, faint lines of strain were visible at the corners of his eyes.

“It has. I’m sorry we’re not catching up under better circumstances,” he said, before waving a hand in Brienne’s direction. “This is my partner, Special Agent Brienne Tarth.” 

Brienne stepped forward and held out her hand. It gave her the perfect opportunity to watch as Cersei took an almost comically subtle double-take. She clearly thought she’d hidden her reaction to Brienne well, but after years and years of watching that expression on countless new faces, Brienne could spot it coming a mile away. Cersei’s was the garden variety _Oh, I thought you were a man!_ With a side portion of _Gods that **nose**_.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Brienne said politely, shaking her hand despite it all.

“You got my messages yesterday then? And my email?” Jaime asked.

“Oh yes. It’s horrible! Simply horrible!” Cersei said dramatically, one delicate, manicured hand pressed lightly against her chest. “To think that we are being targeted by someone so _ghastly_. We are a scholarship program!”

She gestured for them to sit down, and she took her place opposite them, directly in front of the stylised, glittery _Miss Westeros_ logo that took up most of the wall. The plaque near the edge of her desk proclaimed her _Competition Director_. Jaime and Brienne sat in unison and he began to speak.

“Well we don’t know why you’ve been targeted, the letter didn’t say, but this is the first time we’ve been able to decode a letter from The Stranger before they’ve already attacked. We have a unique opportunity here, not only to protect the program and all of the people involved, but also to stop them from hurting others in the future.”

Cersei nodded along, obsequiously attentive to every word out of Jaime’s mouth. “Of course, of course. If there is _anything_ I can do to help, let me know and it will be done.”

Brienne had seen many a person mesmerised by Jaime before—he was infuriatingly attractive— but knowing that this particular hypnosis subject was related to him made it all… a little creepy. She uncrossed her legs and sat a little straighter in the chair, just as a reminder that there was a witness in the room. Jaime, for his part, did not seem flustered by the attention, but Brienne interceded anyway. The way Cersei was looking at him was… gross. “We’ll need access to every event, blueprints to the venues, lists of names of the contestants, past and present, your employees, any copies of any other threats you may have received.”

“We will be supplementing your security with KBI agents, though we won’t be making that obvious. We want to keep this as low-key as possible so that we don’t alert The Stranger that we’re on to them,” added Jaime, and then he came the bit that Brienne had been dreading. “So we also want an agent to go undercover as a contestant. That will give us better access to all the venues without raising any red flags.”

Cersei had clearly been happy with the KBI’s plan right up until Jaime had said the word _undercover _followed so closely by _contestant_. Her expression changed from a fawning and agreeable smile, to a striking, steely frown, familiar enough to Brienne because she had seen that exact same expression on Jaime’s face once or twice. “Undercover as a contestant? Impossible. All of the representatives have been selected already. I’m sure we could find a personal assistant position that would do well enough.”

Jaime shook his head. “Actually, Miss Storm’s End has just been hospitalised with a rather contagious skin condition. She’ll be in quarantine for at least the next three weeks, which does leave a position vacant.”

Cersei’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Who would be the agent?”

Brienne raised her hand. “Er. Me.”

The silence in the room spoke volumes, and it took everything Brienne had not to turn to Jaime and say _See. See! _Instead she held Cersei’s gaze, feeling the perverse need to challenge the other woman to say what she was thinking aloud.

“Brienne is one of our best agents. She has extensive experience undercover, and has been working on this case since the beginning,” Jaime explained. 

Cersei finally tore her green eyes away from Brienne and looked back at Jaime. She spoke slowly, as though she were talking to a child. “It is not as simple as just… replacing a real contestant with an agent, Jaime. Our girls are extremely talented individuals who earn their representative positions through a rigorous series of events and competitions.” Her eyes were back on Brienne, calculating and unpleasant. “You will stand out like a—”

“I’m sure Brienne will rise to the challenge. She is very good,” Jaime said smoothly, not letting his cousin finish. Despite the fact that he was the reason she had this stupid assignment in the first place, his unwavering confidence in her was an unexpected comfort. “Though of course, any help that you can offer in that regard will be _most_ appreciated by the bureau.”

There was a tense little standoff between the cousins, and Brienne felt a little like she was a spectator at a tennis match, or perhaps the bait trapped in a cage between two lions.

Cersei’s mouth twisted, as though she had just swallowed some ugly, bitter pill. “Of course,” she said. “You’ll need a pageant consultant, and luckily the best one had planned to take a year off to refresh his passion for the work. But I’m sure he would be happy to help you if the bureau is willing to pay.”

Jaime sat back, pleased with his win. “That sounds perfect.”

Cersei pressed a button on her intercom. “Joff.”

There was no reply. She hit it again, a little harder this time, and hissed, “_Joffrey._”

“_What?_” The boy sounded somewhat breathless. Brienne couldn’t help feeling repulsed. By Cersei, by Joffrey. By the competition, no the ‘scholarship program’ itself… Only the gods would know just what this _pageant consultant_ would be like.

“Get me the contact details for Varys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to Nire and Luthien for their beta help.


	4. Chapter 3 - The Consultant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne tries to have lunch with the pageant consultant.

Whoever this ‘Varys’ person was there was very little to be found out about him online. After their meeting with Cersei ended, they were lucky enough to organise a brunch appointment with the man, so while Jaime drove them to a cafe on the other side of the city, Brienne spent the ride frantically googling his name. But with only a first name to go on, she was able to find out very little. Whoever Varys was, he was clearly a private individual. So private that he didn’t even have a last name. She did manage to find an archived message board discussing the pageant several years prior, but he was only mentioned once by one contributor. 

_I know he’s empirically a great pageant coach, I’m not debating that, but I find it funny that no one ever talks about the ‘Spider’s’ reputation for… well… frankly I don’t want to say because I’m sure he has his ‘little birds’ reporting back about anything that gets said about him on here, and I’d like to keep working in this industry. If you want to talk about it, DM me!_

It was strange, but it didn’t really tell her anything. Most of the rest of the posts on the forum were similarly catty about other coaches, judges, contestants, even the host, Petyr Baelish.

A little more searching and she’d found herself a picture of the man, though, again, it told her little. It was a still image taken from pageant footage of the previous year; the network’s logo was watermarked in the corner along with a chyron across the bottom that said _Miss Winterfell crowned Miss Westeros in shocking upset! _

He was a bald man, large and round, but in a way that made her think of opulence rather than overindulgence. The grey suit and pink bow tie he wore was a little old-fashioned, but he wore it well, with confidence. There was something strange about his face— it was a little too round, or too soft. Something.

He wasn’t celebrating with the winner. They were standing off to the side of the stage, his arm wrapped around the shoulders of a small woman who seemed to be crying. The sash she wore over her ball gown declared that she was Miss Dorne. 

“We’re here,” Jaime said, as he pulled the car over in front of the place they were supposed to meet Varys. It wasn’t a cafe, like she thought. It was a five-star restaurant. The city didn’t have that many, and this was the type of place that men brought their girlfriends to so they could propose. Not the type of place that _she’d_ ever been. Or ever thought she would visit.

She turned to Jaime. “I thought we were meeting in a cafe.”

“This _is_ a cafe,” he said, and pointed to the sign out the front that said, in a very curly font, _Olenna’s Cafe_.

“This is a five-star restaurant, Jaime. It has a Michelin star!”

“How do you know that?” he asked, surprised. “Wait, no. Never mind. We don’t have time. You need to go in.”

“I’ll wait until you’ve parked the car.” It would give her time to get her bearings and prepare. Everything was feeling very intangible and strange, like she had been transported to some nightmarish, underwater world and now she was floundering and nobody cared to save her.

“I’m not coming in.”

No. She wasn’t floundering. She was drowning. “What?”

It was hard to tell exactly what he was thinking with his sunglasses hiding half his face. Surely this was a joke, right? Her whole life was a joke right now, but he didn’t sound like he was joking. He continued on, a little impatiently, “He insisted on meeting you alone. And we’re desperate, so make sure you get him on side quickly. Be nice. You’re nice. You can do this.”

“But—“ Jaime didn’t let her finish. He leaned across her and opened her door with his good hand, pushing it out. Then he unbuckled her seatbelt and nudged her insistently until she was forced to get up from her seat.

“Our flight to Dorne leaves this afternoon.” Jaime said, leaning down so that he could still see her now that she was out of the car. He kept his bad hand on the steering wheel. “You need to get him to agree to come with us.”

“Jaime--”

“I have to go meet with the rest of the team and see where the investigation is at.” It was a dismissal if she’d ever heard one. He wasn’t going to be persuaded. It was pointless to even try. Fine. She sighed, stood up and shut the car door and immediately the car pulled back out onto the road.

Brienne took a deep breath, feeling her weariness more deeply than she had when she’d woken up, or at any point throughout the meeting with Cersei Baratheon. It was probably just because all she’d had to eat that day was the peppermint tea, and even with the teaspoon of honey she requested it was hardly enough calories to keep her going.

At the very least this meeting meant that she could eat. She tried to focus on the positives. She could eat, and she would feel better, and this man was trained, _literally trained,_ in helping people prepare for pageants. She might not be a typical candidate, but perhaps he was the sort of person who thrived on a challenge! Surely you needed to be a little bit competitive to devote your entire career to working on the pageant industry.

With that in mind, she went inside. She was a little bit early, but when she spoke to the maitre d, it turned out that not only was Varys here already, but he had been here for a good fifteen minutes or so.

She followed the maitre d through the restaurant to a quiet table near the back. The heavy wood paneling and dark lighting of the restaurant made it feel a little sinister. Once, a few years back, she had been part of a team that had investigated a terrorist cell by the name of the Kingswood Brotherhood. She had been the first to breach one of their compounds; a secluded bunker in the middle of the forest. It was a dark, oppressive place where terrible things were planned, and even though she knew it was melodramatic, this restaurant reminded her a bit of that.

They approached Varys from the back. She could tell already, even though he was seated, that he was shorter than her. He was wearing a similar suit to the one in the photograph she’d found; grey with a soft pink shirt underneath. He was nursing a large glass of red wine in one hand and was perusing the menu with the other. Brienne and the server reached the table and he turned his head and _there. _The double take. The incredulous raised eyebrow as he continued to look up, up, _up_ until he finally reached her face. There wasn’t a single person on this earth who had a normal, appropriate reaction to seeing her on first glance.

But Jaime had told her to _be nice_. So she summoned up the trace of a smile. “Mr Varys?” she said, in her most even tone.

He stood. A belated gesture, but it helped him smooth his reaction out to one of pleasant civility. “Ms Tarth. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

He took her hand between his in a very old fashioned gesture. His hands were warm and uncomfortably soft. She gave him a polite smile, and hoped that he would soon return her hands.

But he didn’t. He held them, a little tighter now, and looked her up and down. It was an appraising look this time, excruciatingly awkward. As he looked her up and down he made strange, embarrassing noises, humming and tutting until he let go of one of her hands, and then dragged her trapped hand to the side and moved his free hand in a spiraling motion. _Turn_, it said. Brienne wanted nothing more than to disintegrate on the spot. She was so hungry at this point she felt like it would be an easy enough thing to do. 

_Be nice._

She spun slowly, blush creeping up her cheeks until she knew that her face was as red as a Casterly FC jersey. Finally she was facing in the same direction as when she’d started and her hands were her own. She kept them pinned tightly to her sides lest Varys snatch it up again.

“_Interesting_,” he said, and the word wrapped tightly around her throat.

“N-nice to meet you, too,” she stammered, trying to regain some poise. Her last gynecologist appointment had been less intrusive and she was fully clothed for _this _meeting.

Varys smiled, a sickly sweet thing, eyes twinkling. He waved his hand at the free chair. “Please sit. Would you like some wine?”

“No.” She sat down and instead poured herself a glass of water from the carafe already in the middle of the table. “I need to eat more than anything.”

“Oh?” Varys took his original seat and sat rather deeply back into the chair. His eyes remained on her, noting how she poured herself the water, how she took a sip from the glass. She was a butterfly behind glass.

“I haven’t had breakfast… or dinner last night.” It felt as if she was offering up an explanation to her old school septa, and, as was the usual way of things, they were not convinced. 

Varys tutted and reached for his own glass of wine, which he swirled around and sniffed before taking a sip. “Well let us get you something. It wouldn’t do to have you faint here and now when everything is so terribly dire.”

He waved magnanimously at the menu sitting on the table between the cutlery. Her stomach growled viciously as she skimmed her choices. Her first thought was that she had had a stroke; she recognised _some _of the words on the page, or most of them at least, but they were arranged in such a way that she truly had no idea what she could order. She wasn’t entirely sure that she’d be able to _eat _any of it. _Confit truffle-oil spatchcock with haricots verts drizzled in organic pomelo jus_ and _Swan foie gras with deconstructed pommes puree._

“Can I recommend the _ortolan_?” Varys offered, pronouncing the word the correct, Lyseni way. “It is said to be the gastronomic equivalent of the Maiden herself. Pure and light and there is a delightful subtle hazelnut flavour that lingers for hours.”

There was something about the way he said it that made her absolutely sure that she didn’t want to have _that_, of all things.

“I think I’d like the steak.” She hoped there _was_ a steak on the menu. How badly could you ruin a steak?

“Excellent choice.” He waved the waiter back, and gave their orders. “_Kobe Wagyu _for my lovely companion, and I will have the _aubergine courgette_ salad. And would you be a dear and return with two glasses of this delightful malbec.”

“Of course.” The waiter bowed his head deferentially and departed as quickly as he’d come, so that Brienne didn’t have time to protest that _no really, _she did not want a drink. She watched his retreating back, desperate to call him back to adjust the order, but conscious that she needed to _be nice_, and convince this man to help them. Help her.

So she swallowed her protest and returned her gaze to Varys. He was watching her again. So this time, she forced a smile.

“So I take it that someone has explained the situation to you?” she said, before taking a sip of water. It was sparkling, not the tap water she had expected. It bubbled uncomfortably in the back of her throat. She swallowed it anyway.

“_Yes_, Agent Lannister explained the situation to me over the phone. _How horrible_.” Varys clutched at his chest. “And you need _my_ help.”

Brienne nodded. “We met with Cersei Baratheon this morning and she recommended we hire you to help us ensure that I am, that I look... that I’m an authentic contestant, I guess.”

She forced herself to sit a little straighter in her chair.

“Well you certainly do have a…” and he paused, searching about for the politic phrasing, “...unique look.”

There it was again. Unique. Just what Jaime had called her. She felt the flush of embarrassment build, bringing with it a red burst of anger, and she had no way of stopping it.

He noted her clear discomfort, and set his glass of wine down on the table. “Oh, you must understand Ms Tarth--”

“_Agent _Tarth,” she said through gritted teeth. So much for _be nice_.

“... _Agent_ Tarth, that I mean no disrespect. The pageant had been floundering for years until the diversity drive brought our viewership back. And it has been a true delight to chaperone this new generation of women into the exciting world of Miss Westeros.”

It was hardly a comfort. But they would need his help, no matter how uncomfortable he made her. She took a breath in, and another sip of her water, trying to get her temper back under control. It was probably because she was so hungry. It was harder to control her emotions when she was starving. _Focus on the mission, Brienne._

“Well as The Stranger has targeted the competition and we think this is our best opportunity to catch them before they hurt anyone else,” she explained. “Apparently I am the only agent suitable to go undercover with such short notice.”

“And you do not wish to do it, do you,” he said. It was blunt and unexpected and it cut through her ratty mood. 

“No.” She probably shouldn’t have said that, but still, she felt relieved. Lying never sat well with her and as strange as this man might be, he was perceptive.

For a moment, he looked at her, and it felt much like he was peering into her very soul. Picking apart every secret wish, thought, fear she’d ever had. Then he blinked, and grasped his glass again. “Do you mind if I ask _why_ you don’t want to?”

She fidgeted with her bread knife, using it to outline odd shapes against the tablecloth before she pressed it back down, forcing her hands to still. Why didn’t she want to do it? That was the million dragon question, wasn’t it. She never liked people looking at her, never liked being the centre of attention, let alone being judged on her looks, the one thing she had no real control over. That was part of it, but that wasn’t everything. Then there was also the… femininity of it all. The dresses and the makeup and the _baton twirling_. The last time she’d worn a dress had been at her school’s graduation ceremony. And what a nightmare of a day _that_ had been. But how could she possibly explain her misgivings to this man, this stranger, when she could hardly grasp them herself.

“You think you are not enough of a woman. You are too tall, too broad, too ugly, too mannish, yes?” He said it conversationally, before she had a chance to gather her thoughts. 

She looked at him sharply and grasped the knife tightly in her hand. But though he saw it, he did not seem worried, just continued on apiece. “I imagine it is what everyone has always said to you. People are not particularly creative when it comes to insults, especially children. Fag, gay, homo. I have endured many rumours throughout my career, about what lies between my legs, who I choose to spend my evenings with, what my true motivation is for devoting my career to a beauty pageant. People like you, people like myself, who do not conform easily to society’s binary way of viewing the world, will always ruffle feathers but that doesn’t mean that we give up our right to take up space, to be seen. I saw it the moment you walked in. You slouch to hide your height, you wear men’s clothes because it is easier to find something that fits you in that part of the store than it is to find a tailor who will make clothes for _your_ body. I imagine you’ve convinced yourself you don’t even _like_ wearing dresses.”

All she could do was blink. She hadn’t been so thoroughly and effectively profiled since her interview for the KBI. And even then, that hadn’t been as brutal as this. Nor as perceptive. “I haven’t worn a dress since I was eighteen,” she said, finally, swallowing the lump in her throat.

Varys smiled, almost conspiratorially. “Neither have I.”

The image of this round man in a ball gown was so absurd and amusing that it edged her mood back to something a little bit more positive. And for better or worse, it seemed that he knew something of her experiences. So what she said next was said with fledgling trust, perhaps even hope. “I do not want to be… I don’t want to be a joke.”

“My dear, I will do my _very_ best to prevent that from happening,” he said, just as the waiter reappeared with the malbec and a fresh glass. Once he’d poured a glass for Brienne, and topped up Varys’, the pageant consultant raised his own. “A toast.”

She grasped the stem of the glass between her fingers, still a little unsure about everything. Unsure whether it was wise to drink on her empty stomach, whether this man would be able to do as he’d said and help her to be taken seriously. Unsure if she’d be able to catch The Stranger before he hurt anyone else.

Unsure.

But she raised her glass anyway. 

“To being taken seriously,” he said.

“To being taken seriously.” She clinked her glass against his and took a sip. The malbec was fruity and light and warmed her the moment she swallowed it down. She could tell it would settle her rattled nerves a little, and hopefully the steak would do the rest.

Perhaps this _wouldn’t_ be so bad.

* * *

The stage was set and The Stranger’s plan was in motion. 

This would be their greatest achievement yet. Subtle, yet devastating. They traced her profile in the photograph. Such a delicate nose, such lustrous hair.

No one would be able to stop them.

After all, The Stranger came for them all.

Even her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting this, but I got a bit distracted by another fic idea. Things are getting going on this one now, though, so hopefully things should be a little quicker. 
> 
> Thank you to Luthien, nire and Samirant for their help. Any comments, queries, theories, screaming, let me know below or come and harass me on [my tumblr](http://slipsthrufingers.tumblr.com). It'll be a distraction from the bout of tonsilitis that I've been fending off unsuccessfully for days.


	5. Chapter 4 - The Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varys and his team of little birds give Brienne the long-awaited makeover.

After her lunch with Varys, Brienne got a taxi back to her apartment, intending to collapse into her bed to nap for a little bit before she had to be at the airport. But by the time she got home, she’d received several messages from the office telling her they’d moved the departure time up a few hours. _Varys has organised a team of people to meet him once we land in Dorne. He says they’re going to ‘freshen you up’, whatever that means, _said Jaime’s text.

Varys had told her that he would supply her with her wardrobe for the assignment, as anxious as that made her. Though she had to admit to herself that she hardly owned anything that would be suitable for the Miss Westeros pageant anyway, so she used the little time she had at home to shove handfuls of underwear and pyjamas into her carry on while staring longingly at her unmade bed. She no longer had time to get the rest her body was almost _screaming_ it needed. But it was a long flight to Dorne. Perhaps she would be able to sleep on the plane.

She packed her toothbrush and some other little odds and ends into her toiletries bag, trying her best to avoid her reflection in the mirror, but then she caught herself in the thought. She was going to have to endure being looked at quite a fair bit over the following week or so. Was she really so cowardly she couldn’t even do it herself?

So she squared her shoulders, set her hands on the edge of the sink, and looked.

It was the same face she was painfully familiar with. Pale, freckled skin. Twice-broken nose. The scar above her lips. Her eyebrows were almost non-existent on her face and her too-fair hair was still tangled and messy where she’d pulled it back into a bun. Her eyes were red and puffy which made the blue of her irises stand out even more. But they were her father’s eyes, and they were nice enough. Kind, she thought. Gentle.

Then there was the rest of her. When Brienne had first moved in she’d had to move the mirror up so that she didn’t have to slump over while she brushed her teeth, but it meant that she could now see herself from the waist up without having to contort herself. Her clothes were rumpled. Her shirt was a little too tight across the shoulders yet tellingly loose across her chest. The bra she had on underneath was more of a formality than a necessity. She wasn’t likely to fill out a bikini any time soon.

She tried drawing her shoulders back and down, tried releasing some of the tension from her neck. It made her neck look longer, and her clavicles peeked out from beneath the collar of her shirt.

Was it possible that makeup and clothes could work magic? Could they make her beautiful and respected and something more than just the sum of her disparate parts? Could foundation knit together her eyes and lips and cheeks and nose to make her alluring instead of alarming? Could clothes make her statuesque instead of startling?

Unbidden, her mind strayed to Jaime. Did _he_ ever stand in front of a mirror and agonise over whether his appearance was holding him back? Did he ever wish he was a little taller, or a little stronger? Surely he wished that he hadn’t gotten in the way of the bullet meant for her and ended up disfigured for life.

But she knew the answer. He didn’t think about it at all, because not once had it ever been a problem for him. He was beautiful, respected and admired and probably had been since the day he was born.

It wasn’t fair. It was the way things were, and she had come to terms with it a long time ago.

Well, for better or worse she’d find out soon enough whether Varys could work his magic on her or not. She grabbed her toiletries bag and left her reflection behind in the mirror.

* * *

The taxi ride from her apartment to the airport was long enough that she was able to have a little catnap with her jacket balled up and squished between her shoulder and the window beside her. It was unusual for her to sleep in a car when she was unfamiliar with the driver, but at this point she had very little choice. She was exhausted.

Because the KBI had chartered a private flight to Dorne, the taxi pulled right up to the hangar to drop her off, and she was able to skip through past the indignity of checking in and checking bags at the main commercial terminal. Instead she paid the driver with her cabcharge voucher and stepped out into the bright sunlight, dragging her small carry-on filled with underwear behind her.

Jaime was waiting at the base of the stairs, sunglasses on, with a manilla folder in his hands, staring off into the distance. He, too, looked a little tired, but he wore it better than she did. The sound of her carry-on dragging along the asphalt announced her arrival and he looked up and smiled.

“Brienne. Good work with Varys.”

She didn’t really know what to say to that. She’d hardly had to convince the man; he seemed decided enough already. More than anything _she_ was the one who needed convincing.

Whatever expression showed on her face seemed answer enough for him at present. Instead, he held the manilla folder out. 

“What is it?” she asked, taking it.

“Your cover profile. Read it on the plane.” He nodded sideways with his head, indicating she should go ahead before him, then he leaned down and took her carry-on from her hands. She opened her mouth to protest, _I can carry it_! but he arched an eyebrow at her that quelled her objection. If he wanted to be chivalrous then fine. She was too tired to push the matter any further. She ascended the stairs and ducked her head as she stepped through the hatch door.

The plane was filled with agents already. Hyle and Ron were sitting up the front, both working diligently at their laptops. Mark was a row behind them, talking rather aggressively on the phone. Pia was a few rows back again, trying to lift a bag into the overhead locker. Brienne stepped quickly forward, and exchanged the manilla folder for the heavy luggage, all the while glaring at Ed Ambrose who was sitting _just there_ and hadn’t made a move to help the pregnant woman. Pia smiled at her gratefully as Brienne stowed the bag.

“Thanks,” she said, handing back the manilla folder.

“Don’t mention it.” Brienne smiled back. At least she wouldn’t be the _only_ female agent on this mission. 

Varys was sitting much closer to the back of the plane, and had acquired a few pretty young things in the hours since she’d last seen him. They all were heavily made up and impeccably styled, and each was looking at her in that very same appraising way that Varys had back at Olenna’s. It didn’t make her any more comfortable knowing how supportive he seemed to be, but when he spotted her he gave her a friendly little wave with the tips of his fingers. She nodded back and found her seat in the very last row, where she’d hopefully be able to stretch her legs while she napped.

But, of course, that wasn’t what happened. There was a bit of a delay before the control tower gave them permission to take off, and she didn’t want to try to sleep until they were properly in the air, so she perused the folder Jaime had given her.

At first it all seemed sensible enough--the cover background was pretty similar to her own--born on Tarth where she attended school, before eventually moving to Storm’s End to attend university. At that point her cover’s biography deviated from her own. In itself that wasn’t a problem--if anything it was sensible--but the details…

Someone laughed from the front of the plane. She looked up, easily able to peer over the tops of the seats in front of her to see Mark and Ron were watching her, heads close together and holding their hands to their faces to poorly cover their snorts of amusement. 

She unbuckled her seatbelt and snatched up the folder before she marched back down the aisle to where Jaime was talking to Varys.

“Did you approve this?” She waved the folder in the air before shoving it into his chest.

He frowned, and tried to grab at it with his maimed hand, only to lose his grip on it. She was forced to catch it before it fell to the ground.

Varys, sitting literally in between the two of them, reached up to pluck the folder from where it was wedged between her hand and his chest. Before she had a chance to protest, he was reading it aloud, “Brie Cockshaw. Born on Tarth island to Selwyn and Alyse Cockshaw, owners of a dairy farm inland of Evenfall…”

The guffaw from the front of the plane was unmistakable, and Brienne levelled her deadliest look Ron’s way. He was doubled over with laughter, eyes squinted tightly shut. Jaime turned to look at the other agents, clearly displeased.

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Jaime protested. “Brie is a nice name.”

“Dairy farmers naming their daughter after a type of _cheese_, Jaime?!”

He didn’t have anything to say to that, so she continued on, jabbing at the words in front of Varys, unable any longer to contain her fury. “It says I had a developmental disorder.” 

Ron laughed again, and Brienne had never been so close to shooting a fellow agent in her life. Luckily Hyle shushed him with a smack. At least _he_ seemed to be aware just how precarious this situation was. “This needs to be fixed. _Now._” 

Jaime reached down and took the folder from Varys. He flicked through it unhappily, but there was something else in his expression that she couldn’t read. Whatever it was, though, she could tell it wasn’t good.

“We’ve already sent a copy of this through to the pageant team so they can include it in their promotional material. Your website biography, the event programmes… I don’t know if we have time to make up another one.”

“_Make_ time,” she hissed, tottering on the edge of hysterics. Her face was surely the reddest it had ever been in her life and she was far too tired to exercise any control over the overwhelming storm of emotions that was about to burst out of her. She was boiling over. She was about to burst.

Several things happened then. Someone at the front of the plane--Brienne wasn’t quite sure who--called out _dick cheese_. Jaime rounded on the three agents. Brienne stepped forward but Varys was there, pressing her back down the aisle with surprising firmness.

“Let Agent Lannister deal with them,” Varys said, turning her about so that she couldn’t see the others, and they couldn’t see her. Her eyes burned as he nudged her back into her seat, squishing her up against the window so that he could take the seat beside her. She should have felt boxed in, trapped, but instead, hidden behind the rows of chairs with Varys’s bulky form beside her, she felt shielded.

It left her free to wallow in the mortification that overwhelmed her. The assignment, the name, the attention of everyone in the plane on her at once, all looking, judging. How was she going to cope with a full week of that? With larger audiences, and television cameras and _literal judges_?

She buried her face in her hands so as to hide the tears that had finally burst forth. “Do you see now?” she said to Varys in barely more than a whisper, “I can’t do this.”

He put a hand between her shoulder blades and rubbed her back gently. Her father had done the same to her when she was a young girl, upset by the cruel taunts of schoolyard bullies. 

“You can,” he murmured back, and then he tucked a handkerchief into her fingers. “People like them only feel good when they think they are superior to others, and their mediocrity forces them to drag everyone else around them down. But by the time I’m done with you those _boys_ will regret every foul thing they’ve ever said or done to you. Mark my words.”

Somewhere far away she could hear Jaime’s voice, low enough that she couldn’t hear his words, but incensed nonetheless.

She took the silky cloth and wiped her eyes with it, feeling drained beyond all measure. Varys could say that all he liked, but in her experience men like Mark and Ron were more likely to be promoted than they were to be punished for their unprofessional behaviour, especially in the KBI where the most valuable asset an agent had was the genitalia between his legs. As comforting as Varys’s words were on paper, she would believe it when she saw it.

“My dear, when did you last sleep?” His hand was still rubbing calming circles on her back.

“I had a little nap in the taxi.” And then she yawned, wide and jaw-cracking.

Varys arched an eyebrow. “And before that?”

“I slept a few hours last night.”

He tutted, then stood to open the overhead compartment, retrieving several travel pillows and a soft blue blanket which he tossed lightly into her lap. “First rule of self-care: get enough sleep.”

“But--”

“No.” He shook his head firmly, then resumed his seat beside her, only to take one of the pillows and lean over to prop it between her shoulder and the wall, and then the other one on top of that. Next he pinched a hole in the plastic that encased the blanket, shoved that into the backseat pocket and draped it with it a flourish over her legs. She felt a bit like a baby bird being mothered in the nest. “Your work can wait until you’ve had an hour or two of uninterrupted rest. You aren’t doing yourself any good like this, and you’ll feel better for it, I promise.”

His brown eyes were soft and kind. “While you rest I shall see what I can do about the more… lurid biographical details your odious fellow agents concocted. But if it is, indeed, too late to change then I’m sure we can find a way to make them work in our favour.”

He gently nudged her to the side so that her head touched the pillow. It was soft beneath her ear, and it made her feel her weariness, that at this stage was most likely soul deep. She closed her eyes and let out a breath. She _had_ wanted to try to sleep on the plane, it was true. And perhaps after a few hours sleep Jaime would’ve been able to change it to something a little less ridiculous than… _Brie Cockshaw._

She drifted off to sleep, thinking of nothing but dairy cows.

* * *

A hand shook her shoulder, firmly yet gently, pulling her from darkest nothing. It took her a few moments to get her bearings, but soon enough it all came back to her. She was still in the jet, which was still parked on the tarmac. She turned to see Pia was standing over her.

“Are we still grounded?”

She smiled. “We’ve landed already. You slept the entire flight.”

“What?” She blinked and turned to the window to see that yes, the landscape outside had changed. The King’s Landing airport was a concrete, barren place but there were green mountains on the horizon. Here though, there was a red dusty film to the tarmac, and though she was still sitting in air-conditioned comfort inside the cabin, she could see the haze of heat in the air. In the distance, the sun was dipping below the horizon, burnishing the sky with a beautiful reddish-purple sunset.

“If I didn’t know any better I would’ve sworn someone had drugged you. You slept like the dead,” Pia sounded, if anything, impressed. “I can _never_ sleep on planes, let alone through take off _and_ landing.”

Brienne shifted a little as she tried to crawl her way back to consciousness. The blanket fell down from her shoulders and when she lifted her head one of the pillows she’d been using dropped between her legs; she was still too sleep-drunk to have the reflexes to catch it.

“How long?”

“Five hours.”

_Huh_. She rubbed at her cheeks and sat up straighter in her seat to see that, other than Pia and one of Varys’ assistants, she was the last one on the plane. She frowned, wondering where Jaime and Varys and all the other men had got to.

“They’ve all gone to the casino to set up the base of operations.” Pia answered her question before she had a chance to ask it. Brienne had always liked the other woman. She’d started at the agency a little later than Brienne herself, but her area of expertise was in analysis, rather than fieldwork so they’d never had much of a chance to work together before. “Varys is just getting set up and asked me to come fetch you so they can make a start.”

“Start what?”

“The makeover.” Pia looked a little embarrassed, but she was direct enough that Brienne appreciated it. It was a bit like ripping off a bandaid. 

_“Operation Bear to Maiden Fair?_” Brienne said wryly, unfolding herself from where she sat, careful not to knock her head on the overhead locker.

Pia laughed. “You’re hardly all ‘_black and brown_ _and covered in--’”_

“--the less we say about that, the better I think.” She found that, coming from Pia, she didn’t mind this teasing so much. She was sure she was still blushing, but Pia was a little red too. At least she wasn’t the only one who saw just how absurd this whole situation was.

She followed the younger woman out of the plane, expecting a town car to be waiting to take them to a salon or something, but instead Pia turned and headed directly into a small hangar not that far away from where the plane was parked. Brienne wondered, dully, if the car was parked in there to keep it out of the Dornish winds.

But that wasn’t the case. Inside there was a veritable army of people, mostly women, but a few men too, dodging around massage tables with carry cases and towels, and all manner of items. There was a distinctly perfumed smell to everything. It sent a shiver down her spine.

Varys was standing in the middle of it all with a clipboard, occasionally directing someone this way or that. A petite young man stepped up and asked him a question which Brienne didn’t hear, but she heard his reply well enough. “No she needs the buff down before we start on the tan, and her skin may need a bit of time to breathe after the wax, so we could do her hair then.”

Then he looked up to see that she had finally arrived and with an ominous smile he said, “Brie! Good, you’re here. My little birds can get started.”

After that, everything went by in such a flurry of sensations, most of which were deeply uncomfortable, that Brienne found it hard to keep track, and instead found that she just had to go along with it all, lest she freeze up once more. 

She was handed a clean towel and a thin cotton robe, and was told to go wash up in a temporary shower that had been set up in the corner, but given strict instructions not to wash her hair. That hardly made any sense to her, but the woman who gave her the order looked very serious about it, and it wasn’t like Brienne ever did much more than rub a bar of soap through her scalp, so she just rinsed it and attended to the rest of her body.

But once she was out, that was when the pain and humiliation truly started. They waxed her first. Eyebrows, lip, chin, _neck_, followed by her armpits, her forearms, every long inch of her legs, her _toes_, her stomach and much, _much_ lower. 

“It’s a bikini competition, not a nudist beach,” she said to the beautician who was wielding the hot-wax applicator as though it was a sword and she was an opponent to be vanquished. Brienne paled. “Surely the bikini line is enough?”

The beautician barked a laugh, as if Brienne had told an incredibly funny joke, but sobered when he saw Brienne’s no-doubt stricken expression. “It er… can leave an impression through the fabric. This year’s bikinis are white. It all has to go, I’m afraid.”

She was very much _awake_ after that.

It felt as though every inch of her was tingling as she hobbled to the next station: a full body scrub and facial. She’d bought one of her father’s girlfriends a package at a little day spa on Tarth for her birthday a few years ago, thinking it would be a nice relaxing treat, so she felt utterly betrayed when it was the furthest thing from relaxing. She almost preferred the waxing. The salt mixture was oily and applied by two tiny, aggressive women who seemed determined to strip away every layer of dermis she had to expose the muscle underneath. 

Afterwards she felt grimy and weak, every inch of skin buzzing from the abuse she’d endured. The facial was a little better, but _that_ beautician, an effete young man, was unable to hide his disdain at the state of her skin.

“How is it so _dry _and so _oily _at the same time? What do you wash it with? Battery acid?!”

Brienne had enough self-preservation left to keep the truth (the same bar of soap she used on her scalp and the rest of her body) to herself and acted as though his question was a hypothetical one. 

At times the facial was _almost_ relaxing, lying there with a towel weighing heavy on her chest and what felt like a warm, moist washcloth pressed against her face, she could have fallen asleep again. But just when she let her guard down she felt him press something hard and round to her skin which then began to _suck _aggressively, pulling her skin painfully into the little tube a tiny bit at a time. He told her it was to unblock all of her clogged pores, and every single pore on her face must’ve been more backed up than peak-hour traffic on the Gold Road, because it was deeply uncomfortable and felt like it would never end.

But when it did, she almost wished for it back. He left a heavy mask pressed against her eyes so she couldn’t open them to see what he was doing, but he slathered her eyebrows in some kind of gel that, after a short while, made the area worryingly numb. After that she couldn’t really feel what he was doing, other than odd pressure sometimes, but it was the _smell_ that got her. The distinctly metallic smell of blood.

“What are you doing?” she asked, warily.

“Microblading your eyebrows.”

She didn’t ask him for more details.

Brienne lost track after that. There was a manicure and a pedicure. A haircut. Some aluminium foil in her hair. Varys had found a dentist who’d work in the middle of the night who gave her teeth one of the most thorough cleans of her _life_. At one point she was pulled into a plastic tent, told to strip off _all_ of her clothes and let a woman with a spray-gun slather her in tanning lotion. Being made to stand, spread-eagled and naked in front of a stranger while being sprayed with an unknown substance was a _little_ too close to the type of water-based ‘enhanced interrogation techniques’ that were illegal in Westeros, but by that point in the night she almost felt like she’d been cured of shame. She’d been naked in front of more people in five hours at any other point in her life. What could it matter now?

All the way through, the various beauticians and nail technicians and hairdressers called her, not by her real name, but by her cover name: Brie. At first it had grated a little, but by the end she was responding instinctively, which she knew was going to help her in the long run.

After many hours and many hands on her body, with the sun finally poking light back through the hangar’s high windows, she was finally, _finally_ presented with some clothes to put on. It was a dress, in theory, though far shorter than any dress she’d worn before. Black and white in some sort of intriguing smashed-glass pattern. If she held her hands to her sides, she could touch the bare skin of her thigh with half of her palm without the dress being in the way. There was _no way_ her high school septa would’ve allowed a dress like this to roam the halls. There was _certainly_ no way she’d be able to wear her thigh-holster. 

She stepped out from behind the partitions, a little wobbly on the black wedge heels Varys had given her to wear, but that was as much from weariness as it was from lack of practice. Varys was standing there with Pia at his side, surrounded by his flock of ‘little birds’, and all eyes in the room were on her. There was a palpable, collectively-held breath, and she looked from face to face to try to gauge their reaction, but they seemed thoughtful at best, and enigmatic at worst, and she knew, _knew_ that all this work had been for nothing.

Then Pia smiled. “Ooh, Brienne!” she said, sounding delighted. “If looks could kill!”

One of the little birds wolf-whistled. Another clapped..

Varys looked proud, and waved at the gathered crowd behind him. One of the birds pushed forward a full-length mirror, so that she could finally see herself.

She looked…

She looked.

Powerful. Tall. Striking.

Varys had cut off her hair, which was now slicked back against her head in a way that _should_ have felt masculine but instead drew focus to her cheekbones, sharp and defined. Her eyebrows were darker, and contrasted with a bold red lipstick she never would’ve chosen for herself. Makeup smoothed out her more jarring features. Even her twice-broken nose seemed dainty.

Her skin glowed. She was still fair, but now she looked _healthy _rather than _pallid_, and she couldn’t help but wonder if this had always been an achievable look for her. _Bear to Maiden Fair_ she had joked, earlier. But if she had been interested in these things, like all the other girls, if she had done her research, could she have transformed herself into this… this… reflection in the mirror?

“What do you think?” Varys asked, coming up to stand beside her. In her heels, he barely came up to her shoulder, but he didn’t look the least bit perturbed by it all. He looked proud.

“I…” she said, but found she didn’t have the words. 

But that seemed answer enough for him. He nodded. Satisfied.

“Then let’s show those odious little men just who Brie Cockshaw can be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think! This chapter was a lot more challenging than I expected because I fell down the meta rabbit hole of what it means for Brienne's character to be canonically ugly, while still addressing the more modern understanding that beauty (and ugliness) is a social construct, and in many ways, is a performative act, not an inherent quality.
> 
> ... See what I mean about the rabbit hole.
> 
> Come yell at me about beauty culture at my [tumblr](http://slipsthrufingers.tumblr.com). As always, thank you to Luthien, Nire and Samirant for their help.


	6. Chapter 5 - The Transformation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne arrives in Dorne, transformed.

The ride from the airport to the Water Gardens Casino felt strange. She hadn’t eaten anything since her lunch with Varys the previous day, but one of his many little birds had supplied her with a breakfast smoothie as they loaded her, Varys and Pia into the car.

It wasn’t the coffee that Jaime would’ve handed her, nor was it the peppermint tea she would’ve preferred, but the fruity milkiness was refreshing in its own way, and frankly she needed the sugar. After she’d sipped at the drink for a while, her stomach began to wake up, growling its state loud enough that Pia heard the gurgle and shot her an indulgent smile.

“I thought that was me for a moment,” she said, nodding at Brienne’s stomach before pointedly caressing her own, expanding belly. 

Brienne smiled back before offering the smoothie to the other woman, but Pia shook her head, waving it away with a little laugh. “Oh no, I’ve eaten, _trust me_, I’ve eaten.”

“I didn’t get dinner what with all the…” Brienne waved at her face and chest with her free hand, not sure exactly how she could put into words all that had been done to her. For all that she _looked_ put together and impressive, she still felt a little strange. Her skin felt a little tacky, what with all the products that had been massaged into her over the past several hours. She was also rather more aware of places on her body that she’d never been particularly aware of, such as her upper lip and the knuckles of her toes. The waxing process had left them feeling particularly naked, which she knew was an absolutely absurd thing to think, and yet it was the only way she could describe it.

“The makeover,” Varys supplied smoothly. He had kept to himself for most of the drive, head buried in the screen of his smart phone where he tapped away, sending messages, receiving messages, Brienne didn’t much care. But now he’d put the phone away and was looking at Brienne with what she _thought_ was something like pride. No, satisfaction. This was a man who was satisfied with a job well done. She wondered if he’d already prepared himself a before-and-after montage to show to his future prospective clients. If he could make her look as she did now, then surely he could create a veritable goddess if he had someone naturally beautiful to start with. “Yes, you missed dinner on the plane, but you needed to rest more than you needed to eat.”

“I still feel like I need a good eight hours rest,” she said, feeling somewhat hopeful that once they got to the hotel she would be able to sleep in a bed rather than an airline seat.

But Pia immediately quashed that thought, pulling a run sheet from her bag to give to Brienne. “No time for that today, I’m afraid,” Pia said, and as Brienne ran her eyes down the schedule any residual hope vanished completely. Her day would start with a short briefing with Jaime and the other agents at the casino where she would also be fitted with the gear she’d need while undercover. They’d get her up to speed on the investigation that she, so far, hadn’t been privy to before she would need to be on a bus, which would take her to the meet-and-greet lunch with all the contestants, judges and key figures in the Miss Westeros organisation. From there it was rehearsals, photoshoots and interviews before the competition officially started with the preliminary events the following day.

“Hells, they might as well have scheduled my toilet breaks,” she muttered, eyeing off the _three_ separate wardrobe fittings that were there on the itinerary. She pointed them out to Varys. “Why do I need so many fittings?”

“Well the bikini and evening gown ones are mandatory, organised by the competition. They will have a swimsuit and gown in mind for you to wear, and they will need a day or two to make the necessary alterations. The third one is for me. I need to build a wardrobe for you. You’re lucky I was able to find _that_ dress on such short notice.” Varys nodded at the black and white dress she wore, which was so short that her bare thighs stuck to the leather seat of the town car uncomfortably.

Brienne tugged it down her thighs as much as she could, squeezing her legs together. She would have to be careful not to flash anyone when they got out of the car.

“While we’re on the topic," Varys said lightly. "You'll need to be careful about what you eat over the next week. No starchy carbs, no sugar, and before the photoshoots I'll need you to fast as though you're preparing for surgery. 'Nil by mouth for twelve hours."

She would _starve. _There were at least three separate photoshoots in the following day and a half, and the schedule only covered the first two days of the five days of competition. 

"Why?" It was the only question she could ask.

Varys raised an eyebrow, clearly piqued that she had the gall to question him. But it was the only way she was going to be able to make it through this week: by being prepared for as much of the fruity pageantry as she could. He answered her in a cool, even tone. "We don't want you looking bloated, and we want to emphasise how defined your muscles are."

Her muscles?

"If we wanted to have you look like all the other women in this competition, small and lithe and curvy, then you _would_ look ridiculous, which I have promised I won't do to you, and so we must explore other aspects of femininity," Varys explained, before gesturing at her exposed legs. "So we will be dressing you to enhance your assets, your legs, your height."

"My height." Her scepticism was palpable, but he didn't waver.

"It's the first thing people notice about you, I'd expect, if they're too short to see your eyes. So you mustn’t slouch, and we’ll get you walking in proper heels soon." There was a definite, pointed edge to his voice, which made her very conscious of the way she had curled up into the door of the car. She stretched out, and straightened to look him in the eye.

He smirked. "Your height will give you a certain--”

Brienne was very uncertain whether she _really_ wanted to hear him finish that sentence, so she did it for him instead, “Yes, yes. It’s emasculating.”

Varys tutted. “My dear any man who can be cowed by a woman larger than him is no man at all.”

Then perhaps every man she’d ever met was not much of a man, by Varys’s lofty standards. She had seen the raised look that ended on a sneer on so many faces that at this point it was hardly worth singling anyone out. Even women, she could tell, looked up at her with pity. The polite ones always couched it in commiseration _oh, it must be so hard to find nice shoes in your size_ or _shopping for jeans must be a **nightmare!**_ She honestly appreciated the ones who confronted it head on rather than trying to be diplomatic. Jaime’s first words upon meeting her were: “_Gods_, you’re the tallest woman I’ve _ever _met.”

The whole thing made her acutely uncomfortable and she rather wished he’d move on to something else. “So my height. What else?”

“You do have _quite_ delightful muscles,” he reached out across the seat and gripped her bare upper arm.

Pia was nodding along beside her, “I’ve always been jealous of your arms!”

Brienne lifted her elbow and flexed her bicep, watching her newly-tanned skin pull taut across the tense muscles beneath, giving them a marked, toned shape. All it served to do, though, was remind her that it had been far too long since she’d had a proper workout. She’d been to the gym once or twice in the last month, but she’d stuck to cardio to tire herself out, rather than complete her normal weights set. As a result her muscle tone was not quite what it had been, but she suspected that mentioning that to these two wouldn’t go down particularly well.

“We will want to show those muscles off in stark relief; the more dehydrated you are the tighter your skin will be, hence the need to fast. Any time you see a six-pack in a photograph, chances are that poor shirtless man or woman hasn’t had a sip of water in _days_,” Varys explained.

How was she supposed to do this job if she couldn’t sleep, eat or drink? It was a challenging enough assignment on paper, but the reality was shaping up to be much worse.

“I don’t see why all of this is necessary,” she said as calmly as she could. “Jaime and I worked it out with Cersei Baratheon yesterday morning that I would be guaranteed a spot in the top ten. I’ll already have access to all the backstage areas throughout the major events.”

“Yes, but wouldn’t it look suspicious if you achieve that position when people can’t see _why_ you beat out all the rest? From all that you’ve told me about The Stranger, it seems that he, she, they believe that they are two steps ahead of the KBI and the rest of the authorities with this plan to attack the competition. Far be it from me to allow us to lose that advantage.” His face changed then to a serious expression, all trace of his proud smile gone. “I have been connected to this competition for _decades_, and I have worked with some very impressive, inspiring women. The _last_ thing I want is for _anyone_ involved to be hurt when I could have done more to prevent it.” Varys took her by surprise with the passion of his response. His brown eyes were locked on hers in a careful challenge.

When he put it that way: some discomfort for a week to save an innocent life—or lives—there was really no choice.

She jutted her chin in agreement. She would do what she had to do. It was why she’d joined the KBI in the first place and she would do well not to forget that.

“We’re here,” Pia said, pointing out the window as the town car pulled off the road.

The Water Gardens Casino sprawled out elegantly in each direction. Large roundish buildings were ringed around by a giant artificial lake, which gave them the illusion that they were floating atop the water. The buildings themselves were liberally draped in vines and vegetation, giving the whole area a very tropical feel. It was quite picturesque, but Brienne expected that once the sun went down, neon lights would appear to reveal the rather gaudy underbelly of the place. Dorne was rather infamous for its casinos, having far more liberal laws and regulations around gambling than most of the other regions of Westeros.

They pulled up to the main building’s reception, where a grand banner had been strung up between two pillars: “WELCOME MISS WESTEROS PAGEANT!”

Pia hoisted herself out of the car with a little groan and quickly set about figuring out where she and Brienne would need to go to find the makeshift headquarters. The valet relieved them of their bags, leaving her alone with Varys for just a few moments. He had a busy day ahead of him himself, commanding his veritable menagerie of little birds to see to her wardrobe, her press, and a multitude of other things that she hadn’t even had _time_ to think about.

“I have done everything I can to help you _look_ the part of a contestant, my dear, but the rest will be up to you,” he said. For a moment she was reminded of her father, safely back on Tarth and completely ignorant of what his daughter was about to do. The two men looked nothing alike, but Varys’s manner was almost paternal, and she was ravenous for any last little bit of advice that would help her navigate the rest.

“I’m still not sure I can do this.” She knew it was useless to protest and complain at this stage-- they were too far gone for all that now. But she still needed to say it.

Varys huffed. “Brie my dear, confidence is an illusion. It is a myth perpetuated by posture, posturing and poise. Stand tall, look people in the eye and don’t laugh at things that aren’t funny, and people will think you’re confident, no matter how loudly you may be screaming inside.”

It hardly seemed like it would work, but he had performed miracles with the basic features he’d had to work with, so she was willing to give it a shot. She nodded. He smiled. Patted her knee.

“Make sure you make those odious so-called agents feel how truly _small_ they are beside you.”

* * *

The casino was a very large place. Brienne followed closely behind Pia as she navigated through the maze-like complex, deliberately designed to keep the guests a little turned about so they couldn’t find the exit easily. Whichever sinister architect had planned this place out hadn’t met Agent Pia Rivers. But no matter how direct the route, Pia could not do a thing about how time seemed to move agonisingly slow. Each step on the wedges Varys had given her to wear felt precarious and dangerous and her heart pounded violently against her ribs. Her skin still felt raw and she would have to face Hyle and Ron and the rest. Jaime. Raw meat walking into the lion’s den.

But she kept Varys’s words at the forefront of her mind. Make them feel small. _Stand tall, look people in the eye and don’t laugh at things that aren’t funny._ Ok, she could do that.

She pulled her head up, lengthened her neck, pulled her shoulders down, and let out a deep, low breath. _Stand tall_. 

Brienne trailed Pia through the complex, past palm trees and swimming pools and all manner of people here at the casino resort enjoying their holidays. And as she walked, tall and proud, a funny thing happened.

People got out of her way.

They still stared at her, still took that second look as she passed. But this felt different. These were not shocked, mocking faces. These faces went lax, jaws open slightly. They were impressed.

What magic was this?

Soon enough they were back inside one of the main buildings, in the elevator that would take them to the room the KBI had converted into their a makeshift headquarters. Pia gave her an encouraging smile. “They’re not going to know what to do with themselves,” she said.

“You think?”

Pia nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes. Definitely.”

The elevator dinged as they arrived. Brienne’s heart began to pound in her chest, hard against her ribs. The hallway felt small, like it was narrowing with every step that brought them closer and closer to their destination. Surely any second now she would be knocking her head against the dangling lights that periodically dotted the ceiling.

Before she had a chance to prepare herself for the reunion with the rest of the team, Pia was opening a door to their left.

The room was filled with agents and equipment, televisions, computer monitors, more telephones than she’d seen outside of a call centre. The agents were all busy at their assignments, so that at first Brienne and Pia’s entrance went unnoticed.

Ron spotted her first, looking up from the blueprints he was examining to see who had entered. He stared at her. _Look people in the eye_, Varys had advised, and so that was what she did, doing her best to keep the rest of her expression neutral. Brienne Tarth might have been relentlessly bullied by this man for _years,_ but Brie Cockshaw hadn’t. Brie Cockshaw was at least eight inches taller than him in her heels and could look down upon him with ease.

He straightened, leaving the blueprints where they were on the bed, and turned to smack Mark Mullendore, who was on the phone and hadn’t seen her arrive, on the arm. Mullendore turned, and he too seemed taken aback, the same look on his face that she had seen on the strangers struck by her appearance as she walked past the pool. His jaw dropped too.

One by one the other agents in the room turned to see what the distraction was, and reacted in much the same way. She made sure to look them each in the eye, and more often than not _they_ were the ones to look away first. The game of chicken won. 

Jaime was near the window, absorbed in whatever was on the computer screen in front of him as one of the junior agents, Podrick, explained the communications array they had set up throughout the complex. It was only when Pod stopped talking in the middle of his sentence that Jaime noticed just what everyone else had noticed, and turned.

Brienne kept her shoulders down, even as they wanted to creep up beside her ears, and looked him in the eye. His green eyes so familiar, and yet the expression she saw there was… What was it?

He looked her up and down, eyes trailing down to take in the length of the dress, the heels, the new haircut. Everything.

Jaime swallowed, then turned back to Podrick and the computer screen. “Nice you’ve finally joined us,” he said. “We have work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you, as always, to Luthien, Nire and Samirant.
> 
> Next chapter we get to meet the other contestants!


	7. Chapter 6 - The Contender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne is given her armour, meets some fellow contestants and issues a threat.

The agents assigned to The Stranger investigation had been working hard on the case while Varys had been working hard on Brienne-- that much was clear from the state of the hotel room. There was an array of computer monitors spread across several desks which showed a rotating view of various security feeds throughout the casino complex. 

Brienne took it all in. It was clear that Jaime was running a well-managed investigation, which was hardly a surprise. He had always been more organised than she’d expected, able to follow multiple differing lines of inquiry through to their conclusions while following suspects and the evidence in a way that she’d never been able to. What _was _a surprise was how diligently he was ignoring her, now that she and Pia had arrived, having returned to his conversation with Podrick, leaving her to stand awkwardly to the side to wait until he was ready to bring her up to speed.

Meanwhile, Hyle was leading a group of agents on the other side of the room who were all busy compiling profiles for everyone connected to the pageant. Anyone with anything as suspicious as a parking ticket in their background check had their face and background check pinned to the board. His work took up two full whiteboards which were littered with photographs, printouts of criminal histories, financial records, everything they could legally get their hands on in the short period of time they’d been working on the case. It was a wonder he’d found time to craft Brie Cockshaw’s profile in such detail while managing that kind of workload. But then perhaps he had just delegated all the time-consuming work to his junior agents-- that was something he often tried to do to her, even though they were both qualified field agents. They’d graduated from the academy in the same damn class, after all. 

But right now he, too, was steadily ignoring her, though there was something about the way that he was standing that seemed weird, with his jacket draped across his crossed arms in a strangely nervous way.

“Right,” Jaime said with that a lordly air he only really put on when he wanted people to take him seriously. He turned to Brienne, his face all business. “Pod here has your comms equipment he’ll go through with you to get you online.”

“Earpiece?” she asked, before looking to Podrick. He seemed a little taken aback that she was addressing him directly, and it took him a moment to get his bearings. 

“Y-yes!” he said, and fumbled with a large metal storage case on the desk, retrieving from within it a small pocket-sized plastic container. Inside was a little flesh-coloured ear-piece that would blend in with her skin while she wore it, making it practically invisible, even to someone standing directly beside her. Still, she would talk to Varys about making sure they styled her hair to keep it hidden as best they could. Her current hairstyle, slicked and combed back across her scalp was not ideal, but then there were very few people who would be tall enough to see her ear clearly while she wore the heels Varys provided.

She inserted it in her ear, and Pod reached down to tap on a tablet he’d retrieved from the table. Inside her ear, the little ear-piece trilled softly, notifying her it was now on. Pod leaned down to a microphone set up to the side. “Can you hear me?” he muttered softly, and she was able to hear him double. She gave him a thumbs up, then gently tapped the ear-piece to switch it off. She’d activate it again once she left the room; to keep it on during the rest of this conversation would be too disorienting.

He nodded to himself, happy with his work, then he retrieved another small box from the case. This one looked a lot more like a ring-box, but when she opened it up inside there was a small seven-pointed star pin. “It’s a camera. This way we’ll hear _and_ see everything you do,” Pod said.

Brienne pried the pin from the box and pulled the backing off it, though with her newly manicured fingers it was tricky. Her nails were longer and stiffer than she was used to and it was absurd to think something so insignificant could give her cause to struggle, but struggle she did. Before she could get frustrated though, Jaime reached out and took the pin from her hands, pulled it apart and waved her forward so that he could affix it to her dress. His good hand slipped beneath the collar of her dress holding the pin-back while his bad hand held the camera-side against the fabric at the front. 

For a moment she stopped breathing, held frozen in place as the back of his hand moved gently against the skin of her chest as he brought the two sides together. Upwards of twenty people had seen her naked, or near enough, in the last eight hours, but somehow, impossibly, this felt far more intimate. She looked up from his hands to his face, so close to her own, to see him looking up at her. It was--

“Image looks good!” Pod said, and Brienne looked back down to see that Jaime had finished pinning the star but his left hand was still suspended just above her heart. Then the moment broke, and Jaime removed his hands. Her heart began to beat again. Or perhaps it had never stopped, and she was just now very _aware_ that it pumped endlessly, relentlessly. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom.

“Good, good,” Jaime said, then twisted his wrist to check his watch. “Just in time. You have to meet the bus for the welcome lunch in fifteen minutes.”

“Right.” By rote, she checked her own wrist, but Varys had taken her watch from her when he’d taken the rest of her clothes. She let her arm fall limply to her side, and searched around for something, anything to say. “Is there anything I should know before I go?”

It felt inadequate, falling back onto the assignment. The last few days had been so emotionally fraught for her in a way that she had not been prepared to handle. And ahead of her loomed the prospect of Brie Cockshaw, and all that embodying her would entail. 

“I got Ron to fix up your cover profile and I made sure he took it seriously this time. I’ll get an updated version to Varys as soon as possible so you can get up to speed, but we had to keep the name. The pageant had already made up their promotional material and that was too late to change.”

“Thank you.”

“Brienne, I…” he said, in a surprisingly quiet voice which made her skin ripple over in goosebumps. He seemed… nervous. Why would he be nervous? 

She was suddenly, acutely aware that they were standing in a room filled with other agents and support staff. This didn’t seem appropriate and she took a step back to put some space between them. “I should go. I don’t want to miss the bus.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. Right. Pia!” He looked over her shoulder, where Pia was talking to Hyle. She had what could only be called a triumphant look on her face while Hyle was flushed a deep red that Brienne had only ever seen on her _own_ face. What was that about?

Pia turned at her name, nodded at Jaime, then twisted her head to say one last thing to Hyle which Brienne could not hear. Whatever she said though, it made Hyle grip his jacket just a little tighter, before he vigorously shook his head.

Stranger and stranger.

“Can you take Brienne to the welcome bus?” Jaime asked. “Pia will be your main support out in the field. She’ll be acting as one of Varys’s assistants for the competition. We’ll be in contact with you through your earpiece, but anything else will go through her.”

Brienne nodded stiffly, stomach dropping to somewhere near her toes. _No_. It was too soon. She wasn’t ready.

“You can do this. I believe in you.”

It was too late now. It was her, or it was no one. And if it was no one, then who knows what would happen. So she nodded again. She felt incapable of doing anything more, too paralysed by her nerves and something else, harder still, somewhere deep inside her chest. Jaime had been about to say something, before she interrupted him. What was it?

But she didn’t have time to find out. Pia guided her from the room and back into the corridor towards the elevators they’d arrived in. Towards the _real_ mission, whether she was ready or not.

* * *

Pia moved far more quickly than any petite pregnant woman had a right to, zipping through the casino complex with the ease of a seasoned gambler. It was all that Brienne could do to keep up with her in the wedged heels that she was still not used to walking in, let alone at the brisk pace the other woman set. 

But she managed, and far sooner than she expected, Pia had deposited her by a tour bus, at the end of a line of absolutely _stunning_ women, who all buzzed and tittered with excitement. A tall woman with red hair was standing just in front of Brienne in line. She wasn’t as tall as Brienne— certainly not while she wore these shoes— but it was when she turned to flash a brilliant, sincere smile at Brienne that she realised that this was not really a _woman_ but a _girl. _She was eighteen at _most_.

“Can you believe we’re finally _here_?” she said, bouncing on her toes. “I have been dreaming of this day for _years_!”

Brienne didn’t quite know what to say. The obvious thing would’ve been, _No, I can’t believe I’m here. This is my nightmare_, but it was equally obvious why that would not go down so well. She just had time to force a tight-lipped smile to her face before the girl continued on.

“I’m Sansa. Sansa Stark. Or I guess I should say _Miss Winterfell_, but it’s still such a strange thing to call myself. You must be Storm’s End.”

“Yes,” Brienne said, and then reached her hand out to Sansa. “Brie Cockshaw. Nice to meet you.”

The name felt weird to say, rolling around her tongue like an unsucked sweet, but Sansa showed no signs of suspicion at the strange name. She just shook Brienne’s hand firmly and enthusiastically, and continued to buzz with energy.

The line had moved along, until they were standing by the door of the bus, where Cersei Baratheon’s odious son-slash-secretary held a clipboard and was crossing names off his list as they boarded. He looked up at Sansa, and his expression morphed into an odious leer, not bothering to speak to her face when he could speak to her breasts instead.

“_Ooh_, Winter is _coming_,” Joffrey said, with a vulgar hip-thrust that had Sansa grimacing and shying backwards. Brienne didn’t blame her. He was despicable. It was one thing to be watching pornorgraphy in the office--that was simply disgustingly. It was quite another thing for him to so blatantly sexually harass a woman, out in the open, without fear of repercussion.

Brienne took a step forward, so that she was standing in front of Sansa and far closer to Joffrey than she would ordinarily be comfortable with. But if there was any man she wanted to emasculate with her height, it was this one. If you could even _call_ him a man.

“What did you just say?” she asked, coolly, looking down her nose at him, as though he were nothing more than a slug she was about to crush beneath her heel. And from this angle he did look small. He looked like the teenager he was, with an un-popped pimple on his cheek and patchy facial hair.

He tried to take a step back, but quickly found the bus was in his way. His backside hit the aluminium siding with a thump, and looked up at her, straightened--still standing a good head and a half shorter than her-- and it was then that Brienne saw the flash of recognition in his eyes. But while he was still the twitty little boy she’d intimidated back in the Miss Westeros offices, she was _much_ more.

“Miss Storm’s End,” he said, voice a little higher pitched than it had been a moment before. “I didn’t _recognise_ you.”

It was a pathetic attempt to insult her, and she supposed that she should be thankful he’d tried to do that rather than taking the opportunity to expose her as a KBI agent in front of Sansa. That would’ve been the far more devastating move, but he wasn’t that smart. 

She reached out for Joffrey, but paused when a warning voice whispered in her ear, _‘Brienne_.’

Jaime was right to remind her to be cautious. The assignment had barely started, and people’s lives depended on her. So instead she plucked the clipboard from his hands and ran her fingernail down the list until she found her name, _Miss Storm’s End - Brie Cockshaw_ near the end of the list.

“Here I am,” she said, airy steel in her voice. She tapped the list and returned it to Joffrey. “Right there.”

He nodded, took the clipboard back and dutifully ticked her name off the list. “Sansa too.” Another nod, another tick.

Brienne turned back to Sansa, and waved an arm out in front of Joffrey, gesturing to the door of the bus while effectively blocking him from moving any closer to the younger girl. Sansa smiled at Brienne and headed up the stairs. Once she was well down the aisle of the bus, Brienne turned back to Joffrey and gave him the same up-down look that he had given Sansa. Looking at all he offered to the world, which was clearly very little. Boys like him grew up to be men like Ron or Mark. And what men they were.

“I want to make one thing clear to you, _Joff_,” she said, low and slow, so that there was no way that he could misunderstand her in any way. “If you do anything to make any one of those girls uncomfortable while I am here. If you look at them the wrong way, if you say anything, do anything, lay one single finger on _any_ of them without their consent, I will find out. And I won’t be happy…” she trailed off, leaving her _actual_ threats unsaid, but hopefully still clear as day. “Do you understand?”

He nodded. His throat bobbed once, up and down.

She stretched out a hand, tightened his tie-knot, dusted non-existent lint from his shoulders, then tapped him sharply on the nose. He flinched backwards, hit his head loudly against the bus and cursed. She turned away from him, making her dismissal clear by putting him behind her.

‘_You need to be careful with him_,’ Jaime said, his voice more breezy than she was used to. Probably just feedback from the earpiece.

“I haven’t hit anyone in _days,_” she muttered back, careful not to move her lips too much as she spoke. She climbed the stairs of the bus and the driver shut the doors behind her. She was the last passenger, and in a bus filled with absolutely gorgeous, beautiful, _stunning_ women, all jabbering excitedly to one-another which might have been annoying but provided Brienne with enough white-noise to mask her quick conversation with Jaime.

‘_I know he’s a pest, but Cersei dotes on him and we need her support if we’re going to catch The Stranger_.’

“I’ll behave,” she said, a little begrudgingly, though with every intention of trying, at least. But she had almost reached her seat, and she wouldn’t be able to continue talking to Jaime. So she added firmly, “I promise.”

‘_I trust you._’ Something coiled, warm and loose behind her navel. The feeling buoyed her as she made her way to the last free seat on the bus, which was clearly being safeguarded just for her.

“Thank you,” Sansa said immediately the moment Brienne sat down. There was clear relief on her features and any regret Brienne might have felt for her relatively rash act disappeared completely. “He is always getting too close and I never know what to do about it—”

“Don’t mention it,” she said and waved her hand. “He should leave you alone from now on, but let me know if he doesn’t.”

“Oh I wish you could show me how you do that.” Sansa grabbed Brienne’s elbow and it was everything she could do not to freeze up. 

“Do what?”

“Stand up for yourself like that! Stand up for me!” She was almost breathless, wide-eyed and full of admiration.

“Oh.” Brienne sat back against the fabric of the seat. “It’s mostly my height, to be honest.”

But Sansa didn’t seem to agree. She shook her head vigorously. “No. I’m tall too, maybe not as tall as you, but you had a… a look, a vibe.”

“I’m pretty sure his dick retracted so far up into his body he could feel it in his _throat_,” another girl said from behind. Brienne turned around to see who had spoken, and had to give herself a moment. There were many beautiful women in the world, this bus was packed with them, but this one... Her caramel hair fell in soft curls to frame a heart-shaped face and she had a wonderfully twisting smirk on her face that made her seem mysterious and playful. To have that look directed Brienne’s way was more than she was prepared for, let alone what she had actually _said_.

Sansa giggled. “Brie, this is Margaery. She’s Miss Highgarden.”

“A pleasure,” Margaery purred. “I do love a tall woman who isn’t afraid to wear heels. If only they were stilettos. I wouldn’t be the only one who’d pay good money to see you stomping on Joffrey’s--”

“He’s so gross!” Sansa interrupted quickly, squeezing Brienne’s elbow. “I’m glad you did something about it. No one wanted to do anything about him because, well...”

“Because he’s the son of the competition director.” Margaery rolled her eyes. “As if we should be scared of _that_ washed up botox pin-cushion.”

Sansa covered her scandalised laugh with a dainty hand, and even Brienne had to admit that the insult was pretty on-the-nose. Or on the nose-job.

‘_Are women always this mean?’ _Jaime’s voice whispered, horrified in her ear, and she felt a twinge of remorse that he had to sit there and listen to these women say such nasty things about his cousin. Second cousin. Still.

Brienne assumed the question was rhetorical, because there was no way that she could answer him without sounding like a complete psychotic to the other women. “I’ve never had much time for boys like him,” she said honestly, though boys like _him_ had hardly given her the time of day, either. “The sooner they realise that not everyone is going to be so easily pushed around the better.”

Margaery hummed an enthusiastic noise of agreement and raised both hands into the air. _Praise to the Seven,_ the gesture said. “Gods, this week is going to be so much _fun!_” she said.

_Fun_?There was no way Brienne was going to get any enjoyment out of this week. It was a job that she could endure, but that was it. Beside her, however, Sansa was smiling, light and pure, and Margaery’s sly expression made Brienne’s stomach clench tightly in anticipation. 

It might not be fun, but perhaps the experience wouldn’t be quite as daunting as she’d expected. Varys’s transformation had been the beginning, and Pia’s tireless support had been unexpectedly reassuring because it was confirmation that she wasn’t about to go through this alone. And then there was Jaime: there in her ear and above her heart. The camera would hopefully catch something on film that would help them catch The Stranger, while Jaime would be able to talk to her the entire time and keep her grounded.

For the first time since that fateful day they’d received The Stranger’s most recent letter, Brienne was cautiously hopeful.

Perhaps this plan would work.

* * *

The hotel room was simple, but there was no need for extravagance. Not for what they had planned. What was more important was the location, right in the heart of the Water Garden Resort.

It might not have a view over the lake, or the beautiful gardens that made this part of Dorne so famous.

But the view of the convention centre.

Well.

It was to _die_ for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Luthien, Samirant and Nire, the last of whom came up with Margaery's sick burn about Cersei being a _botox pin-cushion_ which honestly made me mad at how badass it was, so I had to put it in.
> 
> On a personal note, and I posted about it on my [tumblr](http://slipsthrufingers.tumblr.com) a little while back, but I may slow in my posting schedule a little over the next month and a half for a variety of reasons. There is a wonderful perfect-storm of work/life challenges that either have or will beset me soon. Please be patient with me, and I promise that things should definitely pick back up in December when work slows down. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know your thoughts! We'll be introduced to the other key contestants next chapter and the plot will begin to thicken. Any theories yet on who The Stranger might be?! Let me know!!


	8. Chapter 7 - The Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brie Cockshaw meets some of her fellow contestants at the pageant's orientation lunch and finds their gossip rather interesting!

The bus ride was not particularly long. Brienne expected that it would drive them hours to some special venue for the orientation lunch, but it simply took them to the other side of the resort complex. It would’ve been quicker to walk.

“It’s so good we don’t have to walk outside in this heat!” said a girl sitting a few seats behind Brienne and Sansa. “I would melt!”

“I spent too long on my makeup this morning to sweat it all out,” another replied.

You could sweat makeup out? Brienne had never thought about it before--the most she’d ever really done before Varys got his hands on her, was to slather herself in sunscreen before she and her father went swimming back home. On the truly hot days it had been a battle and a half to get the stuff to absorb into her skin properly when she was sweatier than a stripper in a sept. Of _course_ makeup wouldn’t fare much better. 

She knew well enough to keep her mouth shut while the women around her spoke of these girlish things. If she tried to contribute, she’d surely blow her cover within minutes. They spoke with ease of _baking _and _smoky eye_ and _highlighters_, which almost certainly weren’t what _she_ thought they were, not from the way that Miss Sunspear gushed about them. Who got _that_ excited about _stationery?_

Thankfully no one asked her for her opinion on the relative pros and cons of matte vs. wet look lipstick, and the bus arrived at the destination, saving her from any further conversation.

They were herded into a large function room that contained many large circular tables placed around a small raised stage with a podium in the middle. By the looks of it, their bus had been the last to arrive, because the room was already filled with what seemed like _hundreds_ of pretty young things, though intellectually Brienne knew that there were probably only about fifty people in the room. She had never been surrounded by so many objectively attractive people and she found that she didn’t quite know what to do. Surely she stood out like a thorn among the roses here, and that wouldn’t do. She needed to blend in. An acute feeling of awkwardness flushed through her, leaving her paralysed with nerves. Suddenly she had no idea what she was supposed to do with her hands. The dress Varys had her wearing didn’t have pockets. 

Instead she reached a hand up to her ear, making as though to adjust the dangle of her earrings, but instead she tapped on the earpiece and muttered, “Entering the madhouse.”

Jaime’s voice whispered back, “_Just stay calm, Brienne._”

Before she had time to think too hard about just what he meant by _that_\--she could be calm if she needed to!--Sansa had grabbed her by the elbow and tugged her insistently towards a table with several empty seats. “We’re over here!” she said in explanation, and Brienne had no choice but to trail behind her, doing her best not to topple over in her ridiculous shoes. Margaery followed behind them a few paces, getting caught up in pleasant conversation with every second person they passed.

The table was well placed within the room, with a good view of the stage, the surrounding tables and the exits. Brienne surveyed the room, trying her best to make it look as though she was impressed with the decor, rather than reconnoitering. 

“Isn’t it exciting?” Sansa gushed, finally releasing her elbow to grasp the back of a chair. She looked positively giddy. On the table in front of her was an elegant place card _Miss Winterfell_. Next to her on either side was _Miss Pyke_ and _Miss Wall_. Brienne’s seat was directly opposite Sansa, next to Margaery and a surprisingly curvy _Miss Eyrie_. She already had a mimosa in her hand.

“Fashionably late, aren’t we ladies?” she said, a little louder than necessary. “You’ll have to work hard to catch up to me!”

“_Lay-dies_,” a voice crooned through her earpiece, though this time it was clearly not Jaime. It was a bit hard to tell. There was a bit of distortion but she thought it might be Ron.

“The bus was late,” Margaery explained, finally catching up to the rest. “We had a pest control issue, but Brie here handled it with aplomb.”

“Aplomb?” Brienne said, trying to put aside the distraction in her ear and catch up to the conversation in front of her, so she wasn’t quite able to keep the scepticism from her voice. She did her best to cover it by waving her hand dismissively and pulling out her chair to sit. “Anyone could’ve handled him.”

“And yet for years, no one has. They’re all too scared of his mother,” Sansa said, dropping her voice to a low whisper, eyes darting towards the stage where Cersei Baratheon was talking to a vaguely familiar man in a grey suit. She was wearing a blood-red bodycon dress and looked positively vampiric, all pale skin and teeth and golden hair in perfect waves cascading down her back.

Margaery took her place beside Brienne and a waiter came along to place a mimosa glass down in front of the three newest arrivals.

“Oh, I don’t drink!” Sansa said. She handed the drink back, but when the two girls on either side of her began to giggle in a way that was a little mocking and all-too-familiar to Brienne, Sansa blushed and looked a little embarrassed.

“I don’t either,” Brienne said, making eye contact with the younger girl. Was this going to be her secondary assignment all week? Protect Sansa Stark? Then so be it. It wouldn’t do to drink on the job anyway.

The waiter took both glasses with a smile, promising to return with some sparkling water instead.

“I don’t know how you can get through these things _without_ a drink,” Miss Eyrie said, and the twinkle in her eye told Brienne that she was already a bit on the lush side of sober. She held her hand out to Miss Greyjoy who sat beside her. “I’m Myranda Royce,”

Sansa began to fiddle with her napkin, avoiding eye contact with the rest of the table. She muttered, “I just don’t like the taste,” which Brienne only barely heard, and if anything it made her feel even more sorry for the girl. She thought a little on how she could best direct the conversation towards a topic that would be more comfortable for Sansa, which could also help her in her own investigation, but found herself at a loss for words. Jaime was the one who was better able to think on his feet conversationally, not her. Right here was another reason why she was not the best person for the job.

Thankfully, the rest of the women at the table were well-trained in being charming. Margaery extended her hand to Miss Pyke beside her, “Margaery Tyrell. You must be Yara Greyjoy.”

“I see my reputation precedes me,” Yara said with a smirk. “Have you been researching the competition?”

“I got bored on the flight here. It’s such a long way from anything, Dorne!”

“Well better it be here than Winterfell or The Wall,” Yara said, sending a not-at-all apologetic look towards the two red-heads at the table. “No offense, but I don’t fancy heading out in a bikini in that climate. I’d put an eye out!”

She paused and received laughter from most of the women at the table, including Miss Wall, who said, in a remarkably thick northern accent, “I dunno, it can definitely help draw the judges’ attention. Makes you look like you’re hot for ‘em.”

“_I’d go halves in a bastard with her,_” Ron said, and she had to work hard to repress her shudder of revulsion. She would have to talk to Jaime about making sure whoever was on comms stayed silent unless it was absolutely necessary. She wouldn’t be able to keep things straight if things continued on this way.

Sansa was smiling along with the rest of the girls, though Brienne could see there was confusion behind her expression and a faint blush on her cheeks. The only reason Brienne wasn’t blushing right along with her was that she’d spent _years_ working with Ron and the rest. They’d tried very hard, when she’d first started working for the Bureau, to shock her with the most lewd, scandalous, inappropriate things they could possibly say. She had learned not to reward them with a reaction, though she hadn’t always been successful in that endeavour.

“I hope we get time to see some of the sights while we’re here. I hear the Tower of Joy is one of those places you should see before you die,” Sansa said, looking over at Brienne

“I’ve been, don’t bother.” Myranda waved her free hand dismissively. She’d almost finished her mimosa. “Entirely too many stairs, and wonky besides. Better to go to Sunspear, lie on a beach towel, have some bronze dornishman rub sunscreen into your back while you sip on a mojito.”

Margaery laughed. “With that complexion, Sansa would need _three_ dornishmen lacquering her up else she’d turn as red as a cherry.” Then she turned to Brienne, and spotting the undeniable stipple of freckles across her nose and cheeks, added, “Looks like Brienne here could’ve used a dornishman of her own. Or woman. I bet you’re freckled all over!”

“They’d be fighting a losing battle, I’m afraid,” Brienne said. “I spent too much time running around outside as a child to ever have pale skin.”

“Do they have beaches at Storm’s End?” Yara asked, curious. “I thought that was a port city.”

“It is,” Brienne conceded. “I’m not actually from the city. I’m from an island just off the coast, about half an hour by ferry.”

“Estermont or Tarth?” Yara had the look of slight intensity of someone familiar with the area. It made Brienne anxious that her cover would be blown inadvertently. And so soon into the operation, too.

“Tarth.”

“Lovely little place, though a bit rural for my liking. Estermont has a fantastic party scene.” She said the last as an aside to Myranda. “I went to a Full Moon party there once!”

But thankfully Yara didn’t get the chance to tell the full story, as Cersei Baratheon had moved behind the podium. Applause rippled throughout the room, igniting a pageant-ready smile from the former winner. When it died down, she opened her mouth to speak, but the placement of the microphone was evidently too low and she couldn’t be heard. She directed a glare to her left, where Joffrey stood to the side, blissfully unaware of his shortcomings, taking a photo of Miss Twins’s backside while she bent over to retrieve her napkin which had fallen to the floor.

Cersei finished adjusting the microphone. “Thank you, thank you. For the past fifteen years, it has been my honour to serve as director of the pageant and I know that this year will be our most exciting event ever!”

She paused for another, smaller, round of applause. Brienne clapped along politely with the rest of the girls. The man in the grey suit had moved to stand slightly behind Cersei. Now that he was standing tall, not ducking his head to talk to Cersei Baratheon, it was clear that this was Petyr Baelish, the man who had been the master of ceremonies for the Miss Westeros pageant for almost twenty years. He had the ageless look of a man in his middle years; he could be anywhere from 35 to 60. The ashy highlights in his hair added to his dignified bearing.

Cersei brushed her golden mane back from her shoulders and continued on. “After the rehearsal and a photoshoot, you’ll be able to settle into your rooms, and then tomorrow we will begin the preliminary round of the competition, hosted by our master of ceremonies, a Westerosi institution, Petyr Baelish.” She began to applaud and stepped back from the podium to allow Baelish to take the stage.

He moved with the smooth grace of a practised entertainer. This was a dance he had performed for many years, and he knew all the beats to hit.

“Thank you, thank you!” he said, holding his hands out dramatically, encouraging those who had stood to applaud him to retake their seats with a magnanimous wave. “And thank you, Cersei, for that warm welcome. Doesn’t she just look exceptional! Would you believe we’re the same age?” The women in the crowd laughed, and while Cersei smiled and laughed too, it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it! Welcome, ladies, to what I hope will be the _best_ week of your lives!”

That seemed like an odd way to begin--surely there would be better weeks than _this_: the birth of a child, a wedding day, graduating from university--but a quick glance at the others at her table told Brienne that she was the only one who thought so. The women were all staring up at Baelish with varying degrees of awe. Brienne didn’t understand the appeal.

“It is my privilege to host this competition and be surrounded each year by so many beautiful, talented, intelligent women, and so it is with deep regret that I must announce that I will be retiring as master of ceremonies after this year.”

Women around the room, including Sansa, gasped in surprise. “Oh no!” she said in a whisper. “He’s worked on this competition since my mother was a contestant!”

“Oh, he’s not retiring,” Margaery said, quieter still, so that only the girls at their table could hear. “He’s being _fired_.”

_That_ was a bit of a surprise, but Brienne filed it away to consider later. What was the more interesting observation was that, while most of the room seemed understandably shocked at Baelish’s announcement, Cersei stood behind him poised and impassive. The only one in the room _not_ taken by surprise at his announcement. Either she was an excellent actress, or she’d already known the news. Had she shared that with Jaime when he’d told her of the threat? Or had she kept it to herself? If so, why?

“What for?” Brienne whispered back, but Margaery pursed her lips and shook her head, nodding pointedly back at the stage. She would have to find out later.

“Though this is my last year, I cannot wait to work with you fine, young ladies, and I have faith that this will be the most exciting competition yet!” This time Baelish led the applause himself and the room joined in as he descended from the stage. 

Joffrey tucked his phone back in his pants and clambered up after Baelish, pulling a rumpled sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. He smoothed the paper flat and began to read. “All right ladies,” he said, a little too loudly and closely into the microphone which screeched with electric feedback. The crowd winced and he reared back, clearly shocked. He had the good sense to look a little embarrassed, but continued on and began to explain the schedule for the rest of the day. Brienne tried to pay attention, but the women around her had already started to talk and she wanted to listen.

“Oh my gods, _fired!_” Myranda gushed. “Do tell!”

Margaery grinned and leaned forward. “Well. You didn’t hear this from me, but I heard from a reliable source that our master of ceremonies has a bit of a problem keeping his hands to himself. The board is sick of having to dig deep to keep these girls quiet, so they’re not renewing his contract. The party line is that they’re looking for a new host to ‘bring the competition into the new century’.”

“But he’s been the host for twenty years!” Sansa said.

Yara rolled her eyes. “Just because something is traditional doesn’t make it good.”

Sansa shrank back in her chair. “I know. It’ll just be different, is all.”

Around them the talk began to rise in earnest as Joffrey left the stage, and servers began to flood the room, each carrying plates that they deposited in front of famished contestants. As their table was in the middle of the room, it looked to Brienne like they were likely to be fed last. The smoothie Pia had given her earlier had taken the edge off her hunger, but she was positively ravenous now. 

But before she could eat, she needed to make sure Jaime had heard the rumour about Baelish and see whether he wanted her to follow up on that or not. And whether he was concerned that Cersei had been keeping things from the investigation. So in a monumental act of self-discipline, she excused herself to the bathroom.

In her first stroke of luck in days, it was empty, and she locked the door behind her so it would stay that way while she talked to Jaime.

“Did you hear all that?” Brienne asked, but all she heard in response was her own voice, echoed back at her. She frowned, then moved in front of the mirror so that the camera in her seven-pointed star pin would be able to catch her face, and tapped the earpiece on and off.

The feedback was loud enough she almost ripped the earpiece from her ear. “Seven hells!” she cried, and glared at her reflection in the mirror.

“_Sorry!_” Jaime’s voice replied, much clearer than it had been before. “_We were having… there were some technical issues on this end. Everything should be sorted now_.”

Brienne wondered whether _‘technical issue’_ was code for ‘_Ron was being an asshole, as usual_’, but she didn’t have time to ask. “Did you hear what they said about Petyr Baelish?” she said.

“Yeah. I already have Hyle looking into the complaints. There was a note in his file the organisation gave us, but it looks like they might have left a few things out deliberately.”

That was weird, but not necessarily incriminating. There were lots of reasons why the pageant might have kept that information from the KBI. But that was for Jaime and the rest of the team to figure out. “Cersei knew about it too. She was the only one in the room who wasn’t shocked at the announcement.”

_Or perhaps the botox just kept her from showing she was just as surprised as everyone else. _The thought bubbled into being, mean and catty and not at all the type of thing she was used to thinking about _anyone_. It was the type of thing a girl like Margaery would say, not her. Besides, it didn’t feel right. Cersei had seemed too still.

No. She definitely knew.

“_I’ll look into that too._”

She paused for a moment, unsure whether she should say anything about Ron or not, but decided that if she didn’t speak up then she’d only have herself to blame if Ron or Mark or whoever tried it again. And she was sick of just letting these things go. If Petyr Baelish was being fired for inappropriate conduct, then she could insist on consequences for her colleagues guilty of the same behaviour. “And you need to keep the others away from the comms if they can’t keep their mouths shut. It’s hard enough staying focussed on one conversation. I don’t have to hear their vile jokes in my ear.”

“_You’re right. I stepped away from the mic for a moment to take a call from Selmy. I’ve already talked to him about it._”

“I mean it Jaime!”

“_I _know_. It’ll just be me or Podrick from now on. I promise._”

“Good.” She stared at herself in the mirror, only just now feeling the awkwardness of the situation. From the outside it looked exactly like she was having an argument with her own reflection. Her own, more attractive reflection. A week ago, if someone had told her that this was what she would be doing, that this is what she’d look like, she would’ve punched that someone in the face.

“_I tried to tell you earlier but we were interrupted. You look incredible._” Jaime’s voice broke through, unexpected and low, and it sent a traitorous shiver down her spine. Incredible. Not unique, this time. _Incredible. _That was what Varys had transformed her into.

She waved her hand. “It’s all smoke and mirrors, Jaime. This isn’t really _me. _The moment we’re done with this job, I’m taking off the makeup. I’m going back to my old clothes.”

“_It’s not that… that stuff. You look nice, of course, everyone would if they had the time and money and know-how we’ve invested in you--_” she frowned. This felt too much like an insult for her comfort, but he continued on before she could protest. “_No you look more sure of yourself. It’s… you standing taller, looking people in the eye. What’s that saying? ‘It’s not the clothes that make the man’_. ”

Brienne rolled her eyes. “I don’t think that’s the saying at all.” But despite it all, she smiled.

“_It sounds right to me._”

Her stomach rumbled loudly enough she was sure Jaime heard it through her earpiece. “I need to get back and eat something before I head to… to wherever it is I’m heading next.”

Apparently Jaime had been the one listening to Joffrey, or at least he had a copy of the schedule in front of him. “_The dance rehearsal. Yes. Varys will meet you there with a change of clothes and the updated Brie Cockshaw profile. I’ll try and catch up with you tonight to get you up to speed with the rest of the investigation._”

Brienne nodded and her reflection nodded back. “All right. I’ll see you tonight then.”

“_Tonight_.”

She lingered at the basin for half a heartbeat longer, then unlocked the bathroom door. Lunch was calling her name, and come hell or high water she was going to enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Note: some of Cersei’s dialogue is pretty heavily paraphrased from the movie.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for their understanding of the delay with this chapter. I really do appreciate all the kind words from everyone! Things have calmed down for me considerably over the last week or so and now I'm on holidays, so you can expect a bit more of a regular posting schedule.
> 
> Let me know your thoughts on this chapter! So many new characters! Some intrigue! A lot of you think Cersei is The Stranger because of who her corresponding movie character is, but to this I say:... _this isn't a straight adaptation_. Things are not and _cannot_ be nicely slotted into the movie's plot, and frankly the fic would be boring if it was, and I'm aiming for a lot of things with this fic, and boring is not one of them.
> 
> Thank you, as ever, to Samirant, Nire and Luthien for their support and Firesign for lighting a fire up my butt earlier today when I needed it.


	9. Chapter 8 - The Next Miss Westeros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne gets to know her competition.

Once lunch ended, the rest of the day passed by in a blur. There had been busier, more tiring days in Brienne's life, but this one certainly made the top ten. 

After they’d finished with lunch they were, as Joffrey promised, herded onto buses that took them to the convention centre where the main gala events would be held. They were given twenty minutes to change into appropriate active wear before they were handed over into the care of a rather flamboyant Bravosi man named Syrio. 

It was his job to teach them the routine they would all be expected to perform at the opening of the final night of the competition, and he had very little time to do it. Brienne thought that, given the limited timeframe, he would have been best served teaching them a relatively simple routine, easily remembered and executed, but no. No, he had them twirling and pirouetting and moving in ways that Brienne was certain would cause her back problems later in life. But around her the other contestants moved with an assured grace that made Brienne all the more determined to master it as quickly as they had. 

“You need to loosen up, Storm’s End!” Miss Eyrie called over to her, arms held above her head in precisely the same arrangement as everyone else, except the way that she did it made it look… suggestive.

“It’s been a while,” Brienne sighed and shook out her arms. “I’m rusty.”

“Well you know what they say about a rusty door…” Myranda trailed off, the corner of her lip curled up into a knowing smirk. She waited for Brienne to shrug in confusion--she _didn’t_ know what they said, why would she know about _doors_?-- before her smirk split into a salacious grin. “Just needs a little _lubrication_.”

No amount of makeup could’ve hid her blush at _that_. Some of the girls nearby began to laugh at the joke, and the whole situation was all too familiar to Brienne.

“A girl is the _dance_, nothing more!” Syrio cried, knocking Myranda’s ankle rather firmly with the cane he carried. It didn’t seem to hurt or bother her, but she returned to the dance and Brienne did the same, refocusing her efforts on the task at hand.

Once she put her mind to it, learning the steps wasn’t actually that hard. It was pretty similar to the fencing footwork she had learned back in high school. The stage was a little wider than the _piste_, and she also had to make sure she didn’t collide with Miss Duskendale or Miss White Harbour, but ultimately it was all just one foot in front of another. If she kept practising it later, and tomorrow if she could, she felt like she would be ready for the finale. She would never be the _best_ up there, but she would blend in with the crowd, and that’s the most she could really hope for on an undercover mission.

After Syrio pronounced them finished for the day, they were whisked backstage to shower and prepare for the photoshoot that afternoon. Each contestant had been assigned a vanity mirror with a small curtained-off changing space. By the time Brienne returned from the bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a bathrobe, and found her assignment, Varys and Pia were already there waiting for her. They’d brought one of Varys’s little birds along to restyle her hair and reapply her makeup; the shower she’d desperately needed after the dance rehearsal had washed away most of their earlier efforts. 

Pia was busy pulling dress after dress from the garment bag under Varys’ watchful eye and hanging them on the clothes rack beside the dressing room. To Brienne’s surprise, there was a not so small part of her that was curious what the outfits would look like. It was hard to tell while they were on hangers and Varys had said he was getting several things tailor made for her. There was one dress in particular that caught her eye, a dark, magnetic blue thing made of some kind of silky fabric. But before she could reach out and touch it, Pia was handing her a _different_ dress-- this one just as short as the black and white one she’d worn to the lunch, but was a rich, lustrous gold-- and was shoving Brienne behind the curtain with firm instructions to change quickly.

She did as she was told and emerged from the dressing room only to have Varys zip the dress up with little fanfare before he pushed her down into the seat in front of the vanity. Satin, Varys’ little bird, almost immediately got to work, attacking her with a blow dryer in one hand and a large circular brush in the other. 

All the while Satin worked, Varys explained to Brienne how the photoshoot would progress, though he had to do so at a yell for her to be able to hear him over the sound of the hair dryer. Even still she missed every other word, but the general gist of it seemed to be: “Stand tall, don’t smile, do what the photographer says,” which she felt she could do well enough. 

Then he said something that made her stomach drop. “I’m very sorry I won’t be there to see you amongst the other contestants. I would’ve liked the chance to mingle with them a little. Get to know the competition, as it were.”

“What do you mean you won’t be there?” she asked, trying to temper the panic she felt. A photoshoot was one thing; a photoshoot without Varys there to encourage her was quite another. It was amazing how quickly she had grown to rely on his support.

His kind, apologetic look almost made things worse. “I have to meet with my tailor about your gala dress, but Satin and Pia will look after you very well.” Then he turned and said to Pia, “If, when you return from maternity leave, you find that police work no longer suits you I would happily take you on as my assistant. I think you’ll find I’m open to flexible employment arrangements that would work well for a new mother.”

Satin made an enthusiastic noise of support as he applied something to Brienne’s face and neck with a big fluffy brush. “Best boss I’ve ever had!”

Pia chuckled and rubbed at her stomach with her free hand. “What’s your insurance like?”

“We’ll discuss terms when I get back. Take care.” He bowed his head to the three of them and left.

So it was Pia who presented her with the nude stiletto heels that Varys wanted her to wear for the shoot, and it was Satin who taught her how to walk in them.

“The most important thing to remember is to walk heel first,” Satin said, after having pulled a pair of fluorescent orange heels from, well, she wasn’t quite sure where, just that she was certain that he’d been wearing sneakers when she’d first been introduced. He stood tall in his heels and took a slow, exaggerated step, grounding the heel of his shoe before resting the toe down. “It gives you balance. I know you want to walk toe-first, but honey trust me that’s a recipe for a broken ankle, and your legs are _far_ too fuckable to be hidden away in a moon boot.”

Brienne didn’t know where to begin with that--_fuckable_?!--, so she let it slide and instead focussed on walking slowly, heel-toe, heel-toe. She still felt a little wobbly, but she wasn’t too worried that she would topple over and make a scene.

“Yass girl, you’ve got it!” Satin clapped and whooped. “Okay next honey, you want to walk one foot in front of the other like you’re walking on a balance beam.”

He demonstrated that too, exaggerating every step with a hip popped in each direction. “It makes you look confident, gives you that _hey I’m walking here_ vibe and everyone will be tripping over themselves to step outta your way!”

That was a little more challenging. It felt more natural to spread her legs a little for a wider stance and therefore more stability, but did her best to do as instructed.

Satin tutted at her through his teeth. “Girl, keep those legs _together_, honey. Imagine you're trying to squash a watermelon between those thighs of yours. I'm sure you could, you've _got_ to introduce me to your personal trainer. Your squat game must _slay_."

Brienne couldn’t ignore _that_, much as she’d like to. She shot Satin a look and he grinned cheekily back at her, then slapped her lightly on the ass. “Go honey!”

This time she walked with her legs pressed together, heel-toe heel-toe, one foot in front of the other. She did it slowly at first, but found that the quicker she walked the easier it was to let momentum keep her going. She walked all the way across the room and back to where Pia and Satin stood, looking like an absurd parody of pleased and proud parents.

“Good gods girl, you’ve got me on the turn, I swear,” Satin said, taking both of her hands in his, squeezing them tightly.

She squeezed them back. She could do this.

* * *

The photoshoot was being held in a separate part of the casino, around the edge of one of the more lavish pools the resort had to offer. The pool itself was a crystal clear, pristine blue with an infinity edge at the far end that gave it the rather dizzying optical illusion that the water blended in with the sky. Palm trees lined either side, with ferns and other beautiful tropical plants native to this part of Dorne. Brienne felt like she’d stepped out of the real world and into an advertisement. It looked just like the luxurious, exotic holiday destination she saw depicted on billboard posters. 

At the opposite end of the pool there was a covered seating area which had been cordoned off for exclusive use by the pageant. It was there that the contestants were expected to wait until it was their turn in front of the camera. The area included a poolside bar too, but unfortunately for everyone it was closed, which was a pity. If Brienne had ever needed a shot of something, _anything_, to give her courage, it was now. 

But in the end the whole thing turned out to be rather painless. The organisers of the shoot were, well, very organised. Each girl was called up in alphabetical order, with Miss Ashemark first off the mark, leaving Sansa, Miss Winterfell, as one of the last. Brienne was at the back end of the group, but that suited her perfectly well. It gave her time to observe the other girls to see what the shoot would entail, and it seemed straight forward enough to settle her nerves. They were guided to pose for a series of still shots then there would be a short pause to swap cameras, followed by some shooting of live footage. 

Each girl was instructed to say the same two things: their name, though of course not their _name_, but their _title,_ ‘Miss Whatever’, and ‘I’m the next Miss Westeros’. The first would be included as part of a montage in the opening gala; the second remained a bit of a mystery. All the assistants would say, on inquiry, was that it was for ‘promotional purposes’. It seemed to Brienne a rather spiteful thing to get them to do. “I’m the next Miss Westeros!” “No, _I’m_ the next Miss Westeros!” She didn’t see how the ‘progressive organisation’ could condone this kind of girl-on-girl cattiness in a ‘scholarship program’.

Either way it was made clear that it was a requirement, and so Brienne resigned herself to listening to the girls around her rehearse for _hours_ how _they_ would say it.

“I'm going the sultry route," said Myranda to no one's surprise. The dress she was wearing hugged her ample figure and accentuated depths of cleavage that Brienne could never have hoped to achieve.

Miss Pyke, Yara, was lounged on one of the pool chairs that were still scattered around. She was wearing a dark grey romper with black thigh high boots. The romper had little metallic shoulder decorations that, in a certain light, made it look a bit like armour. “You need to chill a bit on the horny vibe,” she said bluntly. “Judges won’t like it. You know they lap that innocent ingenue thing right up.”

But Myranda wouldn’t be swayed. “Why be something I’m not?” she asked, and was promptly called away by an assistant calling for “Miss Eyrie!”.

It was some time before Brienne was called up, but there was hardly any time to relax. She kept her ear open and listened to the conversations around her for any hint or clue that might indicate something suspicious, whether about The Stranger or anything else. As promised, Jaime ensured that things remained quiet on his end. Podrick was there, periodically checking in, but not in a way that was intrusive or got in the way of her doing her job. The only inappropriate comments she had to endure came from the women in front of her. Whatever Jaime was doing, it kept him away from the microphone for the afternoon. She didn’t need him, of course, but it chafed her not to know. 

Finally, just before the sun set, the assistants called her name. “Miss Storm’s End!”

“Have fun, Brie!” Sansa said, giving her a cheerful wave goodbye.

Brienne smiled back--surely Varys wouldn’t mind a supportive smile in her direction--before she made her way poolside to prostrate herself before the camera.

* * *

So it felt like hours, _hours_ later before Brienne was able to retreat to her assigned room. By that stage she was well beyond exhausted, her feet ached and it was only the fact that Varys and Satin had slathered her in makeup that had her looking anything better than a white walker from the movies. It had been several long, _long _days of emotionally exhausting, hard work, and she knew that it would be several more days of this before she would find any kind of relief. She had had perhaps eight hours of sleep in the last two days, and at this point her sleep debt was very real.

She was so tired she hadn’t even bothered to check who her assigned roommate was. Probably she could’ve asked Pod who would’ve checked with Pia and got her the information but frankly, as long as they weren’t The Stranger themselves, Brienne wouldn’t have cared. She would sleep the sleep of the dead the moment she had another shower and her head hit the pillow.

Her roommate turned out to be Margaery. Miss Highgarden had returned to the room much earlier than Brienne had been able to, having gotten her photoshoot out of the way well before Brienne had. 

And Margaery had used her time well, if the explosion of clothes and makeup and other beauty-related paraphernalia strewn throughout the room was any indication. Dresses were hung across any available surface: the chairs, the television, Brienne's bed. Margaery herself was already tucked under the covers with some kind of face mask on and was reading a copy of a classic treatise on political warfare from the time of Aegon's conquest, ‘The Prince’.

On Brienne’s entrance she set her book down on her chest and looked her up and down, “Oh Brie, you’re back!”

Brienne wasn’t sure what to make of that. It implied she’d already been here then gone away somewhere, when she’d only just made it back from the photoshoot. But then she saw that her luggage was wedged beside her bed, half covered in another dress of Margaery’s. Varys or Pia must have organised its delivery earlier in the day. “I just got finished with my shoot,” she said, and picked up the dress draped across her luggage, and the dress on her bed.

“Oh you can put those there!” Margarey said, pointing to the chair that was already covered in her clothes. “I was going to put them away before you got back, I swear.”

But the book on her chest made Brienne suspect that wasn’t quite true. She hadn’t read it herself, but her father had, as a young man, and had once explained to Brienne--in a tirade against her school’s summer reading program--the basic arguments the author laid out. According to the author, the way to power was to appear virtuous to others while secretly being ruthless in pursuit of one’s goals. “‘_Look the flower but be the serpent under it’,'' _her father had quoted, mouth twisting with distaste. “_But people will never trust you if you are discovered to have acted that way, and if people cannot have faith in you then you will live a very lonely life._”

Margaery had the look of the flower, as did everyone here, but there was some part of Brienne that suspected that she was a little more than she appeared. Her brown eyes shone with a witty intelligence that Brienne had learned, very early on, to be wary of. 

But for now, she did not address the serpent in the room, she simply shifted the clothes to the chair and returned to unpack her own suitcase. Buried amongst the underwear she’d shoved in her suitcase the previous day was a simple set of cotton pyjamas. They’d seen better days, but at this point, after a day of wearing dresses so short she couldn’t lift her arms higher than her shoulders for fear of flashing her nethers to the world, she couldn’t wait to slip into something comfortable.

“I’m going to have a shower,” she said to Margaery.

“Oh, do you mind if I switch out the lights then? I was going to see if I could rest early. Get my beauty sleep, you know.” 

Brienne nodded. She planned on sleeping the moment she’d finished her shower anyway. She took the pyjamas with her into the bathroom, along with a little toiletries bag Varys had added to her belongings, and locked the bathroom door behind her.

The first thing she did was remove her earpiece and camera, switching both off before placing them inside the toiletries bag, just in case. It was one thing to have Pod or Jaime or whoever in her ear, and seeing what she saw everywhere she went, but she drew the line at them seeing what she did in the bathroom. That was for her and her alone.

Unlike the shower she’d taken earlier, hurried and cramped in a backstage bathroom cubicle, she relished the chance she had now to relax under the warm water. She could take as long as she wanted, happy in the knowledge that this was time that she could be Brienne Tarth, not Brie Cockshaw, and no one would be any the wiser. 

But the freedom didn’t last. After she’d dried off and redressed in her pyjamas, she was rummaging around in her toiletries bag for a toothbrush, when she was startled by a frantic, rather loud knocking at the door. Despite Margaery’s little power play earlier, Brienne didn’t feel it was right for her to have to wake and answer it, and the knocking was urgent and persistent, so she quickly zipped out, shutting the bathroom door and opening the door to the hallway.

Sansa Stark was there, looking rather distraught. “Brie!” she said, relief clear in every part of her expression and it only made Brienne worry further.

“Sansa. Is everything okay?”

The younger girl wrung her hands. “No. Yes. I mean, it’s nothing _serious_, but, I don’t--”

Brienne cut her off, grasping the girl’s shoulder in what she hoped was a soothing gesture. “What is it?” It was too much to stand here and watch the girl suffer these nerves. “If I can help, I will. I promise.”

Sansa began to talk. “Do you have a spare charger for a Raven phone? I forgot to pack one in the rush to leave yesterday and my phone is dead but my roomie doesn’t have the same phone as me so her charger doesn’t work, and it wouldn’t be a problem, like, I’m not _obsessed_ with my phone I can go without it if I want to, it’s just my sister, you see, we talk on the phone every night right before we go to bed and I _promised_ that I’d still call while I was here, but I _can’t_ because my phone is dead and I don’t remember her number so I can’t use the room’s phone, and--”

_Oh boy_. “Sansa!” Brienne stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her. It looked to Brienne that she was on the verge of a panic attack. “Calm down!”

Tears welled in Sansa’s pretty blue eyes and Brienne was once again reminded of just how _young_ this girl was. Brienne puffed up her chest in an exaggerated inward breath, gesturing for Sansa to copy her. The girl hiccuped, then sucked in a harsh breath and, following Brienne’s lead, let a shaky breath out. She wasn’t _calm_, but she was a little calmer. “Of course you can borrow my charger,” Brienne said, keeping her tone even and low, the way they were trained to speak in hostage negotiations. “But I’m concerned about how anxious you are. Is everything all right?”

For a moment Brienne worried that Sansa truly _would_ burst into tears, and quite frankly that was a little bit terrifying--Brienne had no idea how to handle a crying girl--but Sansa kept it together. “I know it’s silly,” she said, voice quiet. “But it’s something I’ve done every night since I… well it’s like a tradition, I guess. Or maybe a superstition, I don’t know. But I just… I don’t want her to think I’ve forgotten her, and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to sleep if I don’t talk to her.”

“What’s her name?” Brienne asked with a smile.

“Arya. She’s fifteen and she _hates_ the fact that I'm doing this. She says the pageant is ‘an antiquated relic of a misogynistic culture hell-bent on pitting women against each other’.” And at that, she laughed a little. It was a fond, quiet thing that spoke of a deep, deep affection for her sister. It almost made Brienne wish she wasn’t an only child. “But she told me to call her anyway, and I don’t want to break that promise. I’ve been working hard on being a better sister. I… I wasn’t always so good to her.”

Who was Brienne to deny her the chance to talk with her sister? Only a truly cruel person would do that. “Just give me a moment, I’ll get it for you.”

She ducked back inside the room and found the charger tucked into one of the front pockets of her suitcase. Brienne quickly spared a glance at Margaery who was already well asleep and faintly snoring. If Brienne truly _was_ in this to win, this would’ve been the perfect opportunity to make a video of the girl and upload it to the internet, titled something catchy and viral like _Miss Wheezeteros_. But of course she didn’t.

Sansa bounced to the tips of her toes when Brienne returned with the cord. “I only need the charger for an hour or so and I can buy another one tomorrow when the stores open so I won’t need it for long.”

“Oh keep it. I have heaps.” She didn’t, but she did have Pod on speed dial and the boy could deliver her a new charger easily enough. “Tell your sister I say ‘hi’!”

“I will. Oh thank you!” Sansa said and then, before Brienne could do anything to prevent it, the girl grabbed her by the neck in a tight hug. “Let me know if there is anything I can do to help you! I owe you big time!”

“Don’t mention it,” Brienne said.

“Goodnight Brie!”

“Goodnight Sansa.”

Brienne returned to her room but didn’t bother turning on the lights. She felt her way back to the bathroom, found her toothbrush and cleaned her teeth, feeling wearier with every single perfunctory movement. She was tired enough that she was sure she’d sleep like the dead. She shut off the light to the bathroom and made her way to bed in the dark, holding in a groan of pure bliss as she slipped her legs between the silky sheets; Brienne certainly appreciated the little luxuries of having to work at a Dornish resort. Her muscles relaxed, and she sank into the mattress like her entire body was made of jelly, warm and ready to sleep until she woke the next day. She’d earned her rest.

But there was another knock at the door.

Of course there was.

She groaned, this time in frustration, not bliss, and pushed her sheets to the side, wondering what else Sansa had forgotten to pack. She opened the door, reminding herself to be patient with the girl. “Yes?”

But it wasn’t Sansa.

It was Jaime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously _The Prince_ is written by Niccolo Machiavelli, not someone from Aegon the Conqueror’s time, but this is my story and I do what I want. And following that theme, the “quote” from the book that Selwyn recites is actually from _Macbeth_. Either way both _The Prince_ and Lady Macbeth are very much Margaery’s vibe and I’ll not be taking questions about that at this time.
> 
> Also, sincere apologies to Jonathan Van Ness from _Queer Eye_ for plagiarising his personality for the sake of a bit character. I want him and the rest of the fab five to adopt me. Please adopt me. 
> 
> Thank you to the usual lovely ladies for their help with this chapter. And I keep forgetting to say, but feel free to come harass me on [tumblr](http://slipsthrufingers.tumblr.com). I'm hoping to get the next chapter up sometime later on in the week. It's amazing how productive you can be on holidays.


	10. Chapter 9 - The Roommate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Varys get Brienne caught up to speed on the investigation and Margaery discovers Brienne's secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I agonised a little about whether I should change the rating of this from Teens and Up to Mature Audiences, because there are some issues discussed in this chapter that are potentially upsetting to some. I decided against the change, but **I will warn here for discussions of sexual abuse of minors, prostitution and extortion.** I decided to keep the rating as is because this discussion is about as mature as the fic will get, but if it makes anyone uncomfortable, please let me know in the comments and I’ll change it.

“Jaime,” Brienne said, feeling like all the breath had been sucked from her lungs at once. He looked serious in a way that was completely unfamiliar to her. She was suddenly, agonisingly aware that she was standing in the doorway of a hotel room in nothing but her ratty old pyjamas. She wasn’t even wearing underwear. She hoped sincerely that the pyjamas she was wearing didn’t have any holes, or at least not holes in any untoward places.

“You turned off your earpiece. We’ve been trying to reach you,” he said, grabbing her by the elbow to pull her into the hallway. The door to her room closed behind them with a click, giving them at least a little privacy if Margaery had been awoken by the knocking. “Varys needs you, remember?”

It was like a punch to the gut. She’d even gone over her schedule with Varys and Pia earlier. How had she forgotten? She blinked, feeling suddenly bone-weary.

“I forgot,” she said, knowing full well that it wasn’t really any kind of excuse. She was a federal agent and this was an important case. If she forgot something, or let things fall by the wayside then people could die. They’d die and it would be her fault.

But Jaime didn’t say anything like that. His eyes searched her face for something, what, she wasn’t sure. But whatever answer he found there made him soften. “I know you didn’t want this job, but I need to be able to rely on you to have my back.”

If what he’d said earlier was a punch to the gut, this was worse. This was some mortal wound, one that would poison her slowly and painfully. He thought he couldn’t rely on her? Sure, she was frustrated that he’d put her forward for this assignment, but she was doing it, wasn’t she? She was trying her best! She was wearing the clothes they wanted. She’d let them wax all the hair from her… there… because that was what this job required. She’d _danced_.

“You can, Jaime,” she said, trying to make it clear that she was sincere. Of course he could trust her. “It’s just… I’m tired, is all. I’ve had eight hours sleep in two days. I forgot.”

“You took out your earpiece.” It was an accusation, clear enough, no matter how soft his tone, and that alone had her swinging from apologetic to defensive.

She crossed her arms and stood up straight. Even without shoes she was taller than him. “So I could have a shower in private! Surely I’m allowed five minutes to myself?”

“No. Not on this job.” His jaw was tight. She could see the line of tension that corded down into his neck. It just made her want to squish his face into a practise mat.

But they weren’t in the ring, they were in the hallway of a Dornish resort hotel. He was in a suit and she was in threadbare pyjamas. Worst of all, she was so tired that if she did try to throw him down she was fairly sure he’d overpower her within seconds, and she could not stand for that.

“There’s too much on the line for you to go dark without letting me know first,” he said, in that same, tight voice, and Brienne had no idea how she could possibly respond.

“Can I get some shoes before we go?” she asked instead, unable to keep from sounding petulant. “Where _are_ we going anyway?”

Frustration flashed across his face but he nodded. “The convention centre.” The words twisted his lips into a rather unpleasant expression, but he took a deep breath in and the look faded into something more neutral. It puzzled her for a moment--what _was_ he thinking?-- before she remembered herself and retreated back into the room for her shoes.

* * *

Not twenty minutes later they had pulled up at the convention centre, though at a back entrance. It was dark now, and the area quite devoid of people. The casino was on the other side of the complex, adjacent to the main nightlife strip here in Sunspear, where the masses of tourists flocked for all their entertainment needs. Apparently you could see the neon glow of all the lights and signs from space and when Brienne looked over her shoulder and saw the cloudy night sky did have a bright technicolour glow to it, she could believe it would certainly be a spectacle.

But there was hardly time to appreciate that. Jaime stood holding the door open, waiting for her to enter first. He still looked impatient, but she could see now that he had the same bags underneath his eyes that Varys and Satin and all the rest had so painstakingly covered up beneath her own. She should have noticed, earlier. Of course this job would be stressful for him too. It was his first job as lead agent and it wasn’t exactly the type of case that would ease him into management. The Stranger had killed or injured hundreds of people over the years and they still had no idea who they were. It would weigh on him just as much as her if they didn’t figure it all out in time.

So she followed him through the back corridors of the convention centre without complaining any further about how tired she was. There would be time to rest, later, when they’d caught The Stranger. 

Finally they emerged into the main theatre hall where Varys was standing front and centre on the stage. Somehow, inexplicably, he looked refreshed and jovial and impossibly well-rested for someone who must have been as busy as she had these last few days. Next to him was a rack of clothes, all sequinned and various degrees of sparkly, a high-set stool and a microphone. None of it settled her nerves one bit.

“Ah, you’re here,” said Varys. He clapped his hands and waved them both up onto the stage. Jaime led the way, squinting a little in the bright spotlights Varys had somehow kept on for whatever it was he intended to prepare her for. 

“Miss Storm’s End here wanted her beauty sleep,” Jaime said, and the little note of resentment was clear to Brienne at least, but she took a deep breath and decided it was best to ignore it. Be the bigger woman.

Varys chuckled conspiratorially and said, “Don’t we all?” Then he waved to the array of clothes he prepared, and now that she was closer she recognised the dark blue sparkly dress that had caught her eye earlier in the day. “Take a look, darling. We have a few options to choose from. I like them all, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a lady’s opinion on the matter.”

“I think you’ll look good in all of them,” Jaime said as Brienne stepped forward, and she turned to give him a _look_.

“Agent Lannister, if I didn’t know better I would think you’re flirting with me.” Varys quirked a suggestive eyebrow Jaime’s way before returning his attention to Brienne. “Go ahead, they’re here for you to try on. They should fit you, though they’ll likely need a little tailoring. My seamstress is at the ready to make whatever changes we need so they’ll be ready for tomorrow. Whichever we like best will be your gala dress, and the others we will keep for your interviews. “

There were five or six garments hanging there, each so varied in colour and texture--though they were still all varying degrees of sparkly--that it was a little intimidating having to pick one to start with. For many reasons, she’d never been particularly interested in fashion and there was some part of her that felt like this was a test. If she took the pink dress over the maroon one, surely that would expose her ignorance.

“Try the blue one,” Jaime said, suddenly at her shoulder, and pointed to the one that’d caught her eye.

So she did. Varys waved behind him vaguely, where she now saw that one of those same portable changing tents had been erected for her to use. She lifted the blue dress carefully from the rack and took it with her into the tent, making sure to check the curtain was securely closed before she stripped out of her pyjamas.

“So we’ve made a little headway in the investigation while you’ve been busy,” Jaime said, clearly having taken up a position right beside the tent because his voice was far louder than she’d expected and it made her jump a little. Did she have to be _naked_ while he got her up to speed?

“Oh?” she said, because she wasn’t sure she was capable of _words_ just yet. Noises would have to do. She fidgeted with the dress on the hanger, trying to figure out the fastening about the neck and where the hidden zipper was so that she could get it _on_, quickly, before she was expected to speak again.

“Hyle has been running background checks. It won’t surprise you to know that Joffrey Baratheon has a criminal record. Two counts of indecent exposure and one for online harassment.”

Ah, _there_ the zipper was. She opened the dress and stepped into it, only to be stymied again. There was something odd about the skirt. “Not surprised. What about Baelish?”

“Yeah, they’ve been covering up his indiscretions for years. We’re still looking into it but it appears as though he’s connected with a prostitution ring of some kind.”

“You aren’t talking about Littlefinger, are you?” Varys said smoothly from the other side of the curtain just as Brienne discovered that the reason she’d been struggling with the skirt was that it wasn’t a skirt at all, but pants. The blue dress was… overalls?

“Littlefinger?” Jaime asked. Brienne, meanwhile, pulled the blue not-dress on quickly, relishing the feel of fabric on her exposed skin. It might not be the clothing she was used to, but it sure beat being naked.

“It’s Petyr Baelish’s nickname in certain circles. Don’t let it fool you, he’s not someone to be trifled with,” Varys explained. She heard his footsteps come closer to the curtain and a little sliver of light appeared where his hand gripped the flap. “Are you ready yet, Brie?”

“Almost!” she grunted. The sleeves were giving her far too much trouble for _sleeves_. “What was that about Baelish?”

“This is all hearsay, of course,” Varys said in the same even tone Brienne had become used to over the past few days, but there was an underlying hint of _glee_ there that she was sure she hadn’t heard before. “But as part of his role as master of ceremonies he often travels the pageant circuit, attending and sometimes even judging the regional competitions.”

Brienne wasn’t sure she liked where this was going, but finally, _finally_, she had both arms in the sleeves and she was no longer at risk of incurring indecent exposure charges herself if some stray wind came to blow her little changing room away.

But the zipper at the back was proving to be yet another challenge

“A few of my little birds work the very same circuit throughout the year, and according to them, Littlefinger is quite _solicitous_ with the younger contestants.”

“How young?” Jaime asked, tense and very angry.

“Well for the Miss Westeros pageant, the minimum age to compete is eighteen, but it varies for the regional competitions. Most set it at eighteen too, but there are a few, such as Dorne and the Eyrie that allow sixteen year olds to compete, _if_ they have parental consent.”

The whole idea made her stomach turn. School aged girls competing in competitions judged by men like Petyr Baelish. Brienne almost didn’t want to know anymore; she was disgusted enough already.

“Let me guess, he plays the ‘I can get you what you want’ card? ‘I’ll do you a favour if you do one for me’?” Jaime said.

Varys hummed sourly. “Would that were all it was.”

Brienne finally had to admit defeat on the zipper. She would need Varys’ help to get the thing up the rest of the way. She couldn’t quite contort her limbs in the right way to get it herself, not without risking ripping the fabric. So she made sure she held the bodice securely against her chest and stepped back out onto the stage.

Except Varys was no longer right beside the changing room. He had moved back over to the clothes rack which was on the other side of the stage and was fiddling with something there. Jaime, though, was where she had left him. Beside her.

Jaime glanced at her briefly, but wasn’t to be distracted from Varys’ tale for long. “What else?” he asked, then swirled his finger at Brienne. _Turn around._

She blinked. But she turned, and Jaime put his hands on her, pulling the fabric taut with his right and using his left to raise the zipper. He did it slowly; there were lace details along the edge that could easily be caught in the zipper’s teeth.

“The rumour my little birds tell me is that in addition to manipulating these young girls for his own purposes, he has also… provided them to his friends. They, in turn, provide Littlefinger with favours. It’s all very hard to prove; he is good at covering his tracks. In truth I am surprised the board has gone as far as they have with him. He has had them wrapped around his _little finger_ for decades.”

Brienne felt sick, and it wasn’t just the exhaustion. A quick glance at Jaime showed that he, too, was deeply unsettled by Varys’ story. His cheeks flushed a deep red.

“Is there a single man working for this organisation that’s not…” She couldn’t think of a term that quite conveyed her outrage, her complete and utter revulsion. _Men._

“A despicable sewer rat?” Varys supplied, wryly, returning to where she and Jaime still stood, holding a pair of silver heels. He set them down near her feet and held a hand out to her so she had something to help her balance while she slipped them on.

“They make sewer rats seem like nice household pets,” Brienne grumbled shoving her feet into the shoes, then Varys squatted down to fasten the buckles around her ankles.

“Let me just say to that, that there is a reason I had decided to take a few years break from this business.” For the first time since she’d met him, days previously, he sounded tired. Weary and jaded and tired. “I feared the next straw would be the one to break me, and felt it best to step back and… recalibrate my expectations and my future role within the organisation.”

He finished buckling her into the shoes and stood. She was easily a head taller than him in these shoes, but still somehow they were eye-to-eye.

“I’ll have Hyle look into what you’ve told us, but it does fit with what we’ve uncovered about the man so far,” Jaime said. “Brienne, if you find out anything further along those lines?”

“I’ll let you know,” she said with determination, finally turning to look at her reflection in the mirror.

“You’ll still need to try on the others, but I suspect this one is the winner,” Varys mused from where he stood just behind her. He began pulling pins from a cushion strapped to his wrist, which he used to make little adjustments to how the fabric fell across her body, but they were minor tweaks. It did look quite stunning on her.

“The colour really brings out your eyes,” Jaime added, startling her. She’d almost forgotten he was here.

“Thank you,” she said, not sure what else to say.

What had they been talking about again? _Right_, Baelish. The investigation. Everything.

She cleared her throat. “Is there anything else I need to know?”

Jaime looked confused for a moment, and she could almost see the cogs turning in his mind as he, too, finally remembered what they’d been talking about. They were both so tired.

“Ron and Mark are coordinating with event security, so it’s possible you’ll see one or the other about over the next few days. They’ve been instructed to give you a wide berth, but it’s better you know. In any case I’m fairly sure his target is the main gala event.”

“You think they’re going to go big?”

“It’s one of the only things we can say about The Stranger with any kind of certainty. An attack on the bikini competition would be horrific, don’t get me wrong, but the gala event is already sold out and it’ll be televised live.” He shrugged. “If I’m right that gives us a few days, but we need to prepare for every outcome.”

“Speaking of preparation,” Varys said, moving to adjust fabric on her other side, “We need to go over some practice interview questions. _And_ you need to let me know what I need to acquire for your talent presentation tomorrow.”

“Talent presentation?” she frowned, before it all came back to her. Tomorrow was the first day of the official competition and the very first event was the talent portion, where contestants demonstrated their wide and varied abilities in any number of fields.

“Will you sing? Dance? One of my girls a few years ago did a science experiment on stage-- that was _very _popular and played very well in the press. ‘It shows little girls all over the country that Miss Westeros can be a scientist too!’”

Well she certainly wouldn’t be doing any of _that_, and at this stage her talent was most likely to be staying awake on stage while dangerously sleep deprived. “I… I don’t know?”

Sure, her position in the top ten was guaranteed, but as Varys had said it would surely be suspicious if she earned that position without a shred of merit. The Stranger was likely watching everything very closely. 

“I have an idea,” Jaime said. “I’ll get everything she needs,” and then he began listing things, “a target, ammo--”

She cut him off in protest. “I can’t shoot a gun on--”

“Did I say you would?” he said, levelling quite a firm glare in her direction. He turned to Varys. “Leave it with me. Just make sure she has something comfortable to wear.”

Varys quirked an eyebrow but nodded all the same.

“Good.” Jaime let out a breath through his teeth, mind whirling with whatever it was he had planned for her. He certainly knew her well enough to be sure what her strengths and weaknesses were and she trusted that it wouldn’t be anything embarrassing--_he_ wouldn’t do that to her--but nevertheless she couldn’t help the nerves that bubbled uncomfortably in her stomach. “I’ve got to get back to it, but I’ll check in with you in the morning, Brienne,” he said directly to Brienne before turning to Varys. “ You’ll make sure she gets back to her room safely?”

“Without a hair on her head out of place,” Varys promised, bowing his head.

Brienne watched him leave, a concoction of confusion, worry and exhaustion battling within her against her faith in him. She forced herself to look away as he made his exit stage left and turned her attention back to Varys, who had finally finished pinning the fabric of the jumpsuit and was looking with her with a twinkle in his eye. 

“What is it?” she asked, unsure whether she really wanted to know. Now that they were alone, she heard how her voice echoed through the empty theatre.

“I thought I was going to have to have a rather awkward discussion with you where I informed you that wearing underwear underneath an outfit such as this would ruin the silhouette--” he stepped back and smiled, a teasing smile if she’d ever seen one, “--but it seems that you already got the memo.”

There was a large clatter offstage before Brienne could respond and she turned her head sharply in the direction Jaime had disappeared.

“Fine! I’m fine!” His disembodied voice was accompanied by another rattling sound and she heard a distinct slew of curses that faded as he left the building.

“I should check on him.”

“I think it might be better that we allow Agent Lannister to… nurse his wounds in private,” Varys replied delicately, hand gentle on her wrist. “Now. Let’s get you into the other outfits and we’ll go over some interview questions.”

* * *

Varys had her back in her room a little after two in the morning, and Brienne slept, deeply, the moment her head hit the pillow until the moment her alarm ripped her back into consciousness. It was seven in the morning, which meant she’d had five hours or so--still not enough, not really, but more than she’d had the day before.

Margaery was already awake, sitting at the table in the corner of their room wearing some kind of face mask and the television on showing the morning news. In a strangely considerate gesture, it was muted with closed captions on. She’d also clearly spent a bit of time containing her mess to a modest one-third of the room. Brienne wondered if that meant she was trying a different tact to manipulate her competition.

“You got in rather late last night,” she said, gingerly touching the face mask, some purple-greyish thing that had dried in places but was still wet in others.

“Mmmph.” She wasn’t proud of the noise she had made, but she was also not prepared to have _that_ conversation so early in the morning.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought you had a visitor. _Two_, in fact.” There was a sing-songyness to Margaery’s voice that told Brienne she’d been right to be suspicious about the tidying and she was still far too sleepy to think of any kind of clever cover story.

“My pageant coach wanted to--” her jaw cracked in a gaping yawn, and she wiped at her face to wake up a little more, “--run things over with me.”

“Then who was the _other_ gentleman caller? What did you say his name was…” she trailed off, finger tapping on her chin as she searched her memory, “Ah yes. _Jaime_. That was it.”

_Godsdammit. _

“He’s just one of Varys’ assistants,” she said, hoping the lie sounded reasonable enough.

Margaery hummed and touched her face mask again; whatever it was she was checking for seemed to please her, because she stood from her chair and made her way to the suite’s bathroom, presumably to wash it all off.

Brienne, meanwhile, happy that Margaery had accepted the excuse without any pushback, shoved away the covers and swung her legs around so she was sitting on the edge of the bed, ready to get up in _just_ another moment.

Margaery stepped into the bathroom. Without closing the door she asked, “And does Varys _know_ you’re sleeping with his assistant?”

It was a good thing Brienne was still sitting down, and that Margaery, still in the bathroom, wasn’t in a position to see her, because there was no way she could’ve explained her response to that particular accusation: jaw dropping, eye-popping shock. In any case she was entirely awake now, and blissfully happy that no one seemed to be on the other end of her earpiece this early in the morning. “I’m not,” she said firmly.

“Maybe not anymore, but I could practically _smell_ the sexual tension in the air, Brie.” Her voice was a little muffled and occasionally interrupted by the splashing of water, but Brienne could hear her just fine.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Brienne said, searching around wildly for an excuse, _any_ excuse, that would get her off her back. A wild thought occurred, and she snatched at it desperately, “but he’s gay.”

_Gay_. Gods. Well, what Jaime didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Margaery made a sympathetic noise of commiseration. “Isn’t that _always_ the way with men. You finally find a decent one and he’s just not into your gender.”

“Yeah.” Brienne laughed, and finally, _finally_, Margaery closed the bathroom door.

“_Don’t worry, Agent Tarth_.” Pod’s voice broke the silence. Brienne’s heart froze in her chest. “_I won’t tell Jaime you outed him to your roommate. Your secret is safe with me._”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on [tumblr](http://slipsthrufingers.tumblr.com)! Thank you, as always, to Samirant, Nire and Luthien for their help.


	11. Chapter 10 - The Talent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The talent section of the competition begins and Brienne gets back at those who've wronged her.

“Crowd at full capacity,” said a technician into his headset. He’d been standing alongside Brienne as she peeked out from behind the curtain to survey the, well, the _stadium_ that was the venue for the first event.

Well okay, perhaps it wasn’t a stadium. But it was certainly an _arena_. She’d thought it looked almost full, but there were a few sections where seats remained empty, and so she had been telling herself that it could be _worse_, there could be _more _people here to watch her gloriously fail in public. But with a sinking stomach she realised that the technician was right. Once the people still lining the aisles and stairways found their seats, then _yes_, it would be full. 

“How many people is that?” she asked, immediately flushing with regret because there was no way the answer would actually make her feel any better.

“Twelve-hundred, give or take,” he said, dropping the curtain and turning to her with a smirk. “Better you than me! Break a leg out there, Miss!” And then he disappeared back into the crowd of technicians, assistants, stylists, and contestants--all swarming around backstage, preparing for the various talents that would be on display. 

In one corner, covering several tables, were piles and piles of cut flowers laid out in preparation for her roommate’s talent of flower arranging. The cloying smell was already getting to Brienne a little; she wasn’t allergic, but she’d also never been quite this close to that much unrestrained pollen in _years_.

On the other side of the preparation area was a giant martini glass, so tall that the rim was only just shorter than Brienne herself. She wasn’t quite sure who that prop belonged to, and at this stage she was a little afraid to ask.

Someone grabbed her by the elbow. “There you are!” cried Pia, looking just a little frazzled by all the commotion. “I have been looking all over for you. We need to get you into costume and makeup.”

The dread she’d felt upon seeing the venue packed full to capacity, if anything, only got worse. What would Jaime have her doing? Just how badly would she mess it up in front of thousands of viewers? How many hits would the no-doubt viral video get online within 24 hours? What would her _father_ say?

Her thoughts spiralled as Pia led her back through the chaotic scene to the little section of backstage that had been assigned to her and her team.

"Has Jaime arrived yet?" she asked Pia as they walked. It was one thing to say he'd organise her talent for her, but it was quite another to keep it to himself and then be _late_ to the entire thing. What if he didn't make it in time and she had to go out on stage and, _gods,_ improvise?!

"He just texted he's on his way with everything you'll need," and then after glancing back to see Brienne's face, which was no doubt a sickly shade of green with nerves, she added, "We have heaps of time. You aren't up 'til near the end. Thank the gods Storm's End is so far back alphabetically."

Varys and Satin were waiting by Brienne's vanity, both looking far too serene considering the situation she was about to face. But then again, _they_ weren't the ones about to walk out in front of the metaphorical firing squad. Or possibly an actual firing squad, if The Stranger replicated his attack on Blackwater University.

"Ah, Brie," Varys said, clapping his hands together in delight, before turning to retrieve a bag from where he'd set it down on the chair. "Quickly now. Get changed into this before our mutual friend arrives. He should be here soon." He passed it into her hands then shooed her toward her dressing room.

But she would not be so easily pushed around, not when she was this anxious. She wanted to thrust the bag back at him while saying something petulant like _‘You wear the stupid outfit!’_. So it was with no small amount of apprehension that she opened the bag and looked inside.

“Really?” she asked, and turned to Varys for confirmation, surprised. “He wants me to wear this?”

Varys nodded. “He did say you were to wear something comfortable.”

“Yes, but--” but before she could question the choice any further he was gently pushing her backwards into her curtained change room, pulling the door pointedly shut to end any further protest.

For a moment she stood there, still but for the anxious battle her nerves waged in her mind. But, like everything in her life these past few days, there was very little she’d be able to do about it. It was better to just go with it and trust that Varys and Jaime and everyone else had her back. It wasn’t fair of her to constantly be expecting the worst from them when so far they’d done nothing to deserve her doubts.

She stripped out of her simple blouse and trousers, the only outfit that Varys had so far supplied her that she had considered keeping to wear once her real life commenced again. She hung the outfit carefully on a hanger and changed into what was in the bag. The tights were black and incredibly comfortable, it was true. The sports bra, too, was black, fit her perfectly and kept everything precisely where it was supposed to be. But when she reached into the bag a third time to retrieve her top, there was nothing to be found. Just a pair of socks.

“Varys,” she called out. “You forgot a top.”

“It won’t be necessary, my dear,” he said, from the other side of the curtain, before his hand curled around the door as it had the previous night. “Are you decent?”

“No!”

“Let me rephrase: have you changed into the clothes I have provided?”

“Everything but the socks,” she said, which she still held in her hand. Perhaps if she squeezed them tightly enough they would transform into a nice racer-back top so that she could retain at least a _little _dignity in front of her colleagues.

“Then you’re decent,” Varys said, and opened the curtain before she had a chance to protest. “Out you come, now. We still have to do hair and makeup.”

Feeling as though she was blushing from the very core of her being, she stepped out of the change room. But whatever reaction she was expecting--laughter hidden behind hands, pointed fingers mocking--her little crowd of spectators barely blinked an eye. Varys was holding out a pair of bright blue trainers: the first shoes he’d given her that _weren’t_ heels since he’d become her pageant consultant. By the mirror, Satin was unpacking a toolbox filled with all the tools of his trade: brushes, hair-dryers, curling irons, brushes and makeup compacts. Pia was sitting in the chair in front of the mirror, phone in hand, clearly taking the chance to get off her feet for a little while.

“Jaime will be here any moment,” she said, holding her phone screen out to show a series of back and forth messages, the last of which said _eta 5 min_. Then she made to stand to give Brienne her chair back, but Brienne waved her off.

“No. Stay there,” she said. She didn’t need the chair to put her shoes on, and she wasn’t quite ready to submit herself to Satin’s attentions just yet. She turned to Varys. “I’m not going out on stage half naked.”

Varys laughed. “I’d wager you’re covering up more skin in that outfit than the gold dress you wore yesterday for the photoshoot.” 

“What? That doesn’t make any sense!” Brienne said, flustered.

“Your legs are _super_ long, honey,” Satin said helpfully, waving a makeup brush in the air as though he were tracing her figure with it. “And they were on display for all the world to _see!_”

Her legs? She looked down at them. Encased in tight black lycra there was very little left to the imagination; you could see every curve, every bump, every muscle, which was precisely her point.

“You look _good_, Brie,” Pia said. “You don’t look silly, and you don’t even really look sexualised, if that’s what you’re worried about. You look like you’re wearing those clothes because you know your way around a bench press.”

But these weren’t the type of clothes she usually wore when she went to the gym. She much preferred baggy shirts and basketball shorts: clothes that breathed, clothes that she could use to mop the sweat from her brow. This outfit was the type of thing that silly girls bought so that they could fulfil their new year’s resolutions, not go toe-to-toe in a boxing ring with an opponent.

“Are the clothes comfortable?” Varys asked, “They’re not too tight, pulling on anything? You can move freely, yes?”

Brienne nodded, begrudgingly. 

He adjusted the cuffs of his suit and continued on. “And we are covering all of the necessary parts of your body to avoid requiring any kind of blurring or censoring on the television broadcast?”

She didn’t bother responding. He knew he’d won. She knew he’d won. And frankly she knew that this was more about her hang-ups than it was about propriety, but to confront those hang-ups so publicly?

Instead she sat down on the floor so that she could pull on the socks and shoes, and it was then, when she was at her most vulnerable on the ground, that Jaime arrived. But not alone. Behind him, carrying an assortment of hard plastic containers, trailed Hyle, Ron and Podrick--the first two looking rather pale and the third looking cheerful as ever.

“Oh, wow, Brienne--!” Pod said, then catching the rather stern looks shot his way by Pia, Jaime and Varys, gulped and corrected himself. “Brie, I mean. Brie. _Brie_.”

“Hello Podrick,” she said as she finished tying her shoelaces. If she sounded at all guarded, it was hardly a surprise. Jaime had said she might see Hyle and Ron about backstage but she hadn’t expected for him to be toting them behind him like naughty puppies. Hells. Better to address the elephant in the room directly. She turned and looked at Jaime. “What are they doing here?”

“They--” Jaime spared the other men a quick glance. “--volunteered to be your assistants.”

Hyle squirmed a little in place and readjusted his grip on the container he carried. Beside him, Ron looked positively cranky. Pod continued to smile. Brienne didn’t say anything.

Volunteered.

Right.

Jaime turned to Varys. “Where can we set up?” he asked.

Varys pointed to the area behind the changing room; it was the space _Miss Storm’s End_ and her entourage had been allocated for her time in the competition and the three ‘volunteers’ obediently went where they were directed. Brienne watched them as they began unpacking the boxes, scrutinising each item removed for clues as to what her talent was supposed to be. Hyle had a tube of tennis balls and a wire waste-paper basket, like one of the ones they had back in the office. Next to him, Pod was constructing what looked a bit like a very tall tripod and Ron had pulled out a hard black carry case but though he opened it, from this angle she couldn’t see what it contained.

“All right, honey,” Satin said, suddenly beside her and offering her a hand up. “Time to get you oiled up!”

She froze. “What?”

Then he grabbed a little bottle off the vanity and wiggled it in the air. Still, she could read the label well enough: _baby oil_. “Who do you want to rub you down?” he asked, and there was no mistaking the naughty lilt to his voice, nor the mortifying way he looked first to _Jaime_ when he said it.

“I don’t need to be… oiled up,” she said with distaste.

"It's fairly standard practice," said Varys. "The oil under the stage lights will really highlight all those muscles you have worked so hard for."

"Not to mention it'll make that fresh tan _glow_, honey," added Satin, drawing a single finger along the line of her shoulder, ending with a light tap on her bicep.

"It's…" vulgar, obscene, gross… her mind whirled and she couldn't quite decide which word to go with. Instead she pointed at Varys, accusation clear in every movement. "You said I would be comfortable on stage!"

"Think of it as sunscreen!" Satin said with a conciliatory smile. "Those lights can get really warm after a while."

Yet again she was faced with a battle she was not going to win and she was fuming about it. So instead she focused that anger back on the original source, turning her gaze to Jaime. The reason she was in this mess in the first place.

For his part, he looked rather uncomfortable, clearly wanting to avoid her gaze but she didn’t let him. _See,_ she said with her eyes. _This is your fault_.

“Anyway.” He cleared his throat, clearly deciding it was better to change the topic before she was able to _act_ on her fury. “I thought you might like some target practice.”

It was just enough of a non-sequitur to give her pause. That wasn’t what she’d expected him to say at all.

“Ooh, like back at the academy?” Pia said, perking up. “I’ve heard stories about that but I haven’t seen it in action.”

Target practice. He couldn’t mean…

She turned back to look again at Hyle, Ron and Pod, or rather, look more carefully at the props that they were unpacking. Hyle had laid out on a table the tennis balls and the waste paper basket which had a bandana lying across it. Oh, that wasn’t a bandana, that was a _blindfold_. And it wasn’t a tripod that Pod had been constructing, but a dartboard stand and dartboard.

Brienne watched as Ron finally moved to the side so that she could see what was inside the black carry case.

Throwing knives.

She turned back to Jaime, all disbelief.

“_No_.”

He grinned. “Yes.”

“And they’ll be--?”

“_Yes_.”

There was no way she could’ve held back the grin at that point, and Jaime smiled back at her, eyes twinkling mischievously.

“All right,” she said, looking back at Varys and Satin. “Do what you want, but keep my hands clean. They can’t be slippery.”

* * *

Some time later--Brienne couldn’t quite say _how_ long, she was far too keyed up to truly be sure of her own _name_, let alone anything else--she left the stage to what could only be described as thunderous applause. Her heart was pounding in her chest and every hair that Varys had let her keep on her body was standing on end.

“Brie, that was _amazing_!” Miss Pyke said, grabbing her in a surprisingly strong hug as Brienne re-emerged from the wings into the preparation area. Then as they parted, Yara reached out a finger to trace Brienne’s stomach before Brienne had the sense to bat the hand away. She looked positively lascivious when she said, “And _damn, _girl. Talk about an eight-pack!”

A few other girls tittered in agreement, and Brienne hardly knew what to make of it. They were just muscles.

“Totally unfair they let you do that,” grumbled Miss Wall from her other side, though she did look a _little_ impressed. “I wanted to dress a deer but they told me it was ‘too violent for a family-friendly event’.”

Cersei Baratheon’s disembodied voice broke over the backstage hubbub as she and Baelish took the stage once more. “_Well that was certainly a _piercing_ performance, wasn’t it Petyr?_”

“_I think she gave that man the closest shave he’ll ever have!_” Baelish agreed, before he called Miss Twins to the stage. Walda stepped confidently through the curtains, twirling batons in hand as a rather robust version of _The Rains of Castamere_ began to play over the sound system.

“How did you learn how to do that?” Sansa asked in awe. She was wearing a surprisingly modest outfit compared to what the rest of the girls were wearing-- or weren’t wearing, in the case of Miss Eyrie and her martini glass. Earlier, Brienne might have been jealous of the girl, but right now it felt as though she was burning from the inside out. Her skin was flushed, but this time it wasn’t mortification or embarrassment, it was a very different feeling. This was something more positive.

“My dad taught me the basics,” she said honestly. It’d been a game they’d played together, when it had only been the two of them. Who could get the paper ball into the basket? When they were matching each other shot for shot they made the game a little more challenging, introducing different projectiles, different targets. Soon her aim was impeccable. Between that and her height, she had made a great shooting guard for her school’s basketball team. Then when she’d joined the academy and had been given almost unfettered access to weapons… well.

But she could hardly say _that_ to Sansa. So instead she took the truth and stretched it a little to fit Brie Cockshaw’s background instead. “But I joined a club when I was studying at university.”

“My university doesn’t have a club like that!” Sansa’s eyes widened a little, but the admiration only lasted for a second or two before she came to some kind of realisation and her face fell.

“I’m sure you could start one if you liked,” Brienne said, a little confused. 

Sansa shook her head. “No, it’s not that! It’s just everyone is going to think my act is so silly after seeing yours! You pinned a guy to a wall by his shirt!”

It _had_ been rather fun seeing the fear in Ron’s eyes while he had to stand there, spread-eagled and vulnerable as she twirled the knife in her hands. She was certain that he knew that she’d been thinking about Brie Cockshaw, all the jokes he’d made that called her gender into question and every other horrible thing he’d done to her over the years. Hyle, too, had looked at her with newfound respect after being at the mercy of her very sharp knives.

“I’m sure they won’t. Everyone so far has been very impressive.” It was true. From Margaery’s strangely vengeful flower-arranging tutorial--where she explained the meanings of certain flowers and advised the audience exactly which of them they should pick to create a very pretty, very passive-aggressive bouquet--to Yara Greyjoy leaping from rope to cloth ribbon and back again, practically sailing through the air, in an incredibly impressive aerial acrobatics routine, Brienne hadn’t been underwhelmed by a single contestant yet.

“My boyfriend always told me it was a dumb talent,” Sansa said, wringing her hands. Brienne didn’t like the sound of the boyfriend; anyone calling their partner dumb deserved a little scepticism from her. It must have shown on her face, because Sansa quickly clarified, “Ex-boyfriend really, but I think he had a point, I mean. Is it even a talent? Everyone and their grandmother knows how to sew, it’s really not that big a deal.”

“Did you sew this one?” Brienne asked, pointing at the lovely dress she was wearing. It had a vaguely vintage pin-up look to it, greyish-blue with silver-threaded detail around the neckline which would likely twinkle beautifully under the stage lights. “It’s lovely.”

“Yes, but--” and then Sansa glanced sideways as though checking who was watching their conversation, then covered her mouth and said, “--I have others on underneath this one.”

Brienne looked at Sansa’s outfit with a more critical eye. It certainly didn’t _look_ like she was wearing more than one dress. Though perhaps it _was_ a little bulky in places; Brienne had just assumed it was padded to make Sansa’s figure look a little more voluptuous.

“Oh?” Brienne said, a little too late to be anything other than awkward.

Sansa sighed. “It’s a quick-change routine. Have you seen one before? They’re so dorky, and I’m last up so I need to make a good impression but what kind of impression does _ooh look she’s in a different dress_ really give?”

The girl’s self-doubt was heartbreaking to see. Anyone who could sew _one_ dress that well was certainly talented, but to have created a whole quick-change routine to perform on stage in front of _literally_ thousands of people? That was something beyond talent.

She was about to give the girl a few words of encouragement--she looked like she needed it--but before she could say anything, Pia was at her elbow, _again, _tugging her away.

“So sorry to interrupt,” she said to Sansa, “But Varys needs his contestant.”

For the second time that day, Brienne considered shaking off the pregnant woman to stay where she was, though for a very different reason than before. “I’m sure you’ll be amazing,” she said over her shoulder to Sansa as she walked away. The girl nodded and put on a brave smile before she disappeared from Brienne’s view.

“Just _what_ is so urgent?” she asked. She hoped she was being dragged back to the showers so she could wash the rest of the oil from her body.

Pia glanced back quickly, but didn’t answer Brienne’s question, and it was only then that she noticed how pale she was.

“Pia,” Brienne said, more firmly this time, planting her feet so that Pia was forced to stop and turn back to face her. “What’s wrong?”

Pia let out a shaky breath. “The Stranger sent another letter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't something I would normally do, but I'm sure you've seen in the news that extensive parts of Australia are [experiencing horrific bushfires](https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/bushfires). To date the geographical area affected is bigger than the country of Belgium. With the drought and weather conditions as bad as they are currently, it is likely to get worse. 
> 
> Several people, knowing that I am Australian, have reached out to me to check that I am safe, and I'm lucky that I am in an area that has been relatively unscathed. But if you are looking to help, I have links on my [tumblr](https://slipsthrufingers.tumblr.com/post/190056046687/shes-beauty-shes-grace-shell-punch-you-in-the) to the Australian Red Cross, who have been providing assistance to the communities affected by this horrific event.


	12. Chapter 11 - The Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Stranger issues a warning.

Another letter. The Stranger had sent another letter.

Brienne felt a little stunned. The Stranger was the reason everyone was here, after all, but she’d gotten so caught up in being Miss Storm’s End for the last few days that clearly she had lost sight of that.

Gods, what if there had been a clue she’d missed while bickering with Varys about waxes or clothes or makeup?

She had a job to do and the long and the short of it was that she had spent the last three days worried more about herself than the potentially thousands of people who were here for the pageant. What did her comfort matter when that many lives were at stake?

Jaime and the rest had left the moment they’d received word of the letter; they had left Varys and Pia behind to inform Brienne of the news. Brienne wasn’t needed after the end of the talent show, so she trailed along behind Pia as she navigated them back to the hotel room they were using as their base of operations. They’d had just enough time for Varys to provide her with a bomber jacket to zip up over her tank. The Dornish days might be scorching, but the nights could be surprisingly cool.

It probably only took ten minutes or so to get from the convention centre, but that was more than enough time for Brienne to thoroughly work herself into a lather about the situation. What if they’d been wrong and he _wasn’t_ targeting the pageant, but something else instead? What if all this had been for nothing?

Worst of all, what if they’d been right? And this was the target? And The Stranger had been right underneath her nose the entire time?

They arrived at the hotel room to find it in chaos. Jaime was nowhere to be seen. Phones were ringing loudly, and remained unanswered because practically every agent available already had a phone to their ear. Hyle was one of them, and seemed to have recovered fairly well from his role as human dartboard not yet an hour ago—his new haircut would need freshening up by a barber, who would perhaps neaten up the lines a little, but otherwise he looked unscathed. Ron, however, hadn’t been so lucky. The giant rents in the sides of his polo shirt flapped a little like immature wings and the best that could be said for the holes in his pants were that they allowed for a healthy breeze across his… well.

The moment she stepped inside he shot a glare in her direction, though he remained glued to the receiver he had pressed against his ear. She turned to Hyle, expecting a similar reaction, but instead he just nodded at her—the same kind of nod she’d seen him deliver to his male colleagues and it gave her pause. Surely that wasn’t… respect, was it? No. Not from Hyle. Definitely not.

“Here,” Pia said, thrusting a slip of paper into her hands before going on to explain, “it’s a copy of the letter.”

The moment Brienne set eyes on the letter, she knew it was genuine. The typography, the layout, the syntax, it was all the same. It was still ciphered, so of course she couldn’t make heads or tails of it. But before she could ask Pia for the translated copy, the girl took the page from her hand and flipped it to reveal the deciphered text printed there already.

_ on the third night_

_the waning moon_

twixt the clouds 

on high 

like a cleaver

peeling the heavens

** asunder. **

_ stars will fall_

** the crown will shatter**

_sage wild thunder _

_ and our_

** shadow **

_will claim _

** all**

_ who_

_ oppose us_

Reading the letter sent a shiver down Brienne’s spine that had nothing to do with the cool Dornish night. It had been like this with every letter The Stranger had sent. Ominous. Slightly religious in tone and nonsensical until after the carnage had been inflicted upon the world. It was only after their attacks that the clues peppered throughout the letters finally, tragically, made any sort of sense. There was no doubt that whoever wrote this was some sort of psychopath. The Bureau’s profilers were fairly certain that The Stranger had some kind of mood disorder—though they were reticent to diagnose, or even provide any further speculation because, quite frankly, they had so little evidence to go on. The Stranger was like their namesake: mysterious, unnerving and ultimately fatal.

But there was something about this letter that seemed a little different to the others. She reread the letter once more, trying to be more critical this time as she searched for… whatever it was that had her hackles up.

“It was dropped off here, at the room,” Pia said. “Slipped under the door while the talent show was on.”

Brienne’s heart leapt. “Did the security cameras—”

Pia shook her head. “Something happened to them. Mark is still trying to figure that bit out, but it seems like they were switched off around the same time the talent show started, maybe a bit earlier. No one noticed because we were… well…”

“Distracted,” Brienne supplied, pursing her lips in frustration while her mind whirled with the literally hundreds of questions this now meant the investigation would need to address. But it meant there were certain answers, too. Whoever The Stranger was, they were here in Dorne. At the same resort hotel, even. Perhaps they were a guest, or working for the resort chain or the pageant itself. And they were aware of the KBI’s involvement.

Goosebumps prickled across her skin, down her spine.

“So they know we’re here,” she said to Pia. “The Stranger. They know we’re onto them.”

Pia nodded, and it was then that Brienne noticed that the other woman looked a little pale. “Yeah. Jaime had to tell Selmy about it. I reckon he'll be here tomorrow.”

That, of all things, should not have been what made her stomach swoop with nerves; it should’ve been the letter, the imminent threat of attack, not the imminent arrival of her supervisor.

Brienne swallowed down her nerves and looked back at the letter. The first lines, ‘_on the third night_’ that was most likely a reference to the third and final night of the competition— a four hour long affair where the fifty contestants would be whittled down, at first, to ten finalists, and then to one: the woman who would be this year’s Miss Westeros. The hand-delivery of the letter was more than enough confirmation of the target, but it was reinforced by the reference to the ‘crown’ and the ‘stars’ and ‘on high’.

What was odder still was the rest. It seemed as though The Stranger was alluding to their method of attack, but she couldn’t really make heads or tails of it. And before she could delve any further into it, Jaime returned to the room from the balcony. He held his phone in his good hand, the screen still lit as though he’d only just ended a call, and he looked stressed. Most likely he’d been talking to Selmy, or perhaps one of the other higher-ups back in King’s Landing.

“All right,” Jaime said, voice easily carrying over the noise of the room, which almost immediately quieted—conversations paused, phones put on hold—as everyone turned their attention to their lead agent. Once he was sure the majority of the room was focussed he continued on. “I’ve just got off the phone with Selmy. He’ll be arriving here tomorrow morning and he’ll be wanting a full report. He’s not happy about the lack of suspects so far, and about the fact that The Stranger knows about the investigation. Or that they feel confident enough about everything that they had the balls to knock on our _own damn door_.” Jaime pointed at the door in question, and Brienne could feel the frustration radiating from him. She was frustrated too, but more than that, she felt useless.

Jaime didn’t wallow, though. They didn’t have time for that. “Mark,” he said, turning to the agent in question. “What happened to the cameras?”

“Still working with the hotel security, but my best guess is that they were hacked. We didn’t have any power failures, no internet outages and the cameras themselves aren’t damaged. I’ve contacted the IT department back at HQ and they’re looking into it.”

“So this is all compromised, then?” he said, waving at the bank of computers that lined one wall.

Mark gave the computers a grim look and said, “Probably safe to assume that, yeah.”

“Can we assume they’re linked up to our comms too?” Jaime said, and this time he waved a finger between himself and Brienne. “Would they be able to hear what we’re saying to each other?”

“Probably they have access to that, yeah,” said Mark and when he sent a weirdly guilty look in Brienne’s direction it didn’t take her long to figure out why.

“I’m compromised, too,” Brienne said, strangely calm. She said it for the fact it was, and was a bit surprised, perhaps, at how unafraid she was to voice the thought. To be compromised on any undercover mission almost certainly meant death, or at the very least the threat of death. But there wasn’t any fear there—or there was, but it wasn’t the dominant feeling. Instead it was frustration, or maybe irritation that they’d been here in Dorne for two full days now, halfway through the competition itself, and they were still no closer to figuring out who The Stranger was. The only contribution she’d made was that Peter Baelish was a despicable pervert and it’d been Varys who supplied the details. She’d only supplied the rumour.

“Probably,” Jaime conceded. “But I’ll need you to maintain your cover anyway. The Stranger may know that you’re not really Brie, but you’re still best placed to spot anyone acting suspiciously backstage.”

Brienne let out a breath through her teeth but tilted her head in acknowledgement. She was this far through the whole thing anyway. She might as well see it all through.

“We’ll nix the communication through the earpiece, though. I’ll get you messages through Pia or Varys or organise a time to meet up with you privately.”

Pod, standing a little to Jaime’s left, looked to Brienne, a telling red blooming across his cheeks. She could tell he was thinking what she was: that Jaime already had the perfect cover story for visiting her unannounced, but now was definitely not the time to reveal that to him. She gave Pod the minutest of head-shakes in answer to his silent question before turning back to Jaime.

“The letter seems to indicate the target of the attack will be the contestants,” Pia added, holding out her copy of the letter. “‘On the third night’—the first lines—that must be the gala night. It’s televised live, so surely if they’re looking for attention that’s their play. And then there are a few things here that are most likely references to the contestants: ’the crown will shatter’, ‘stars will fall’—” She’d been pointing out the phrases as she quoted them, until she waved the paper at the room vigorously to make her final point. “All of the marketing calls them ‘The Stars Of Westeros’ and the winner will be crowned. I think we need to anticipate a personal attack on them.”

The idea of any attack was horrifying, certainly, but having Pia lay bare the evidence of the threat to the girls—Sansa, Margaery, Ygritte—hells, Brienne herself, ignited within her the fear that she hadn’t felt earlier. Those girls didn’t deserve to be the victims of an attack such as this. She’d only known them a day and a half, but they had each, in their own different, varied ways, proved themselves to be passionate, intelligent, dedicated women. For all it was a running joke that they all wanted ‘World Peace’, Brienne suspected that if any of them found themselves placed in the right position—president, army general—they’d be the ones to achieve it.

And to think of them gunned down. Or poisoned. Or crushed under the roof of the convention centre at the hands of an anonymous maniac… The thought chilled her to her core.

Brienne agreed with Pia’s interpretation. That part, at least, had seemed obvious enough even to her. “We should ramp up security around the girls.”

“I’ll see what we can spare, but we’re already spread thin as it is,” Jaime said. “We could talk to Cersei, see if there is anything she can do to cut down on the number of people allowed backstage—fewer people means fewer chances anyone will be hurt.”

“I’ll do it,” Brienne volunteered, which seemed to surprise Jaime a little. “Someone needs to brief her on this anyway, and if we’re still going to maintain the illusion of business as usual, then it has to be me, right?”

There was the tiniest moment of hesitation there, during which she caught his gaze and was struck by the open unease she saw there. But it was gone in a flash, the moment he looked away and nodded his agreement with her suggestion.

“Hyle, I’ll need you to ramp up the background checks on everyone. We have to be missing something. Did Cersei send through the rest of the employment lists?”

Hyle crossed his arms and grimaced. “No, but we’ve started in on the ones we can, anyway. We got some info from the tax department about the pageant—it’s a bit outdated, obviously, but we’re working down the list. I’ll let you know if anyone pops out.”

“Brienne, make sure you get the list from Cersei when you see her,” Jaime said, pointing at her with his bad hand, then turned back to Hyle. “When she gets you the list, it might be worth cross-referencing the two. Look into any new hires.”

“You got it, boss.”

There was a moment of silence then, as Jaime paced a little, gathering his thoughts. Brienne didn’t envy his position. The role she was assigned was not one she would have ever asked for, but at least she was supported. By Varys, Pia. Jaime himself. But Jaime, he’d wanted this job. He’d wanted lead on a case for years, had confessed as much to her over drinks to celebrate wrapping up the Harrenhal gang case a year ago. But this case was as difficult as they came. There was so little evidence, they were working to a time limit they weren’t sure of, and the investigation was sure to get media attention no matter which way it went. And sure, he’d get the accolades if they solved it all, if they caught The Stranger. But if they didn’t, and people died…

She found herself wishing she could support him the way that he’d been supporting her. But she couldn’t. Not while she had to be Brie Cockshaw.

Jaime finally came to his decision, stopped his pacing, and turned to face the gathered agents once more. “Okay, anyone who finds themselves without something to do, you see Hyle and help him and his team with the background checks. Mark, you and your team, you’re reassigned to threat assessment for the convention centre. I want every possible avenue explored. Forensics said they’d get back to me within the hour with their analysis of the letter, but I’m not sure we’ll get much from it, same as usual. Otherwise, I want everyone back here at six for a briefing before Selmy arrives.”

He didn’t address Brienne directly again, but he didn’t need to. She would head straight from here to wherever Cersei was and update her on the newest developments. And she wouldn’t leave until she had the current employment records in her hands.

It was what she could do to support _him_.

* * *

It took a little while to track the competition director down after Jaime finished his briefing. The talent portion of the night had ended half an hour or so beforehand, but Pia checked with a few of the other assistants she’d befriended throughout the week and confirmed that Cersei had left the venue pretty much as soon as the cameras had stopped recording. She’d left in a town car with Petyr Baelish, though no one was sure precisely where they were headed.

But Brienne wasn’t going to let a little thing like that stop her from getting what she needed from the woman. She’d been working for the KBI for years. She could track down suspects as well as the best of them with the right resources at hand. And in this case the right resource was Pia.

It only took Pia a few minutes, two phone calls and a quick satellite ping, but she quickly determined not only that Cersei had returned to her hotel room—a suite in the considerably fancier section of the resort than the contestants were put up in—but that she’d been there for quite some time. Brienne could’ve figured that out herself, but the other woman was practically a savant with a smartphone, and when everything settled, when they were back in King’s Landing and safe and sound, Brienne had every intention of recommending her for a commendation or a promotion or _something_. She deserved to be recognised for her skills.

But there wasn’t time for that now. Instead Pia sent her on her way with the room number and a map of the resort with arrows directing her way. It only took Brienne about ten minutes to walk there, and she appreciated the chance for a little fresh air. And the time to herself. It felt like, for the last three days, she hadn’t had a single moment alone with her thoughts and it did her good to breathe in the Dornish air while she figured out how she would get what they needed from Cersei.

And, frankly, she appreciated the chance to think on other things. Like the way that she’d felt after she’d left the stage, and how good it had been to to see Ron’s terrified, regretful face the moment before she twirled the throwing knife in her hands and pulled the bandana over her eyes. How comfortable and—empowered? was that the right word?—the clothes Varys had provided her had made her feel. For the first time in her life, people hadn’t looked at her with _that _look, that double-take with the gasped ‘Oh!’ that she was so used to. Instead they looked at her with a regard she wasn’t used to, though she didn’t know what to do with it.

Then there was the way Jaime looked at her. As though, simultaneously, she was the same woman he’d always known, but someone new all the same. It made her feel delicate. Fragile. She wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was he so easily fooled by makeup and a pretty dress? She was still the same person underneath it all. Surely he knew that.

But then, perhaps men were distracted that easily. Why else would all the movies and TV shows and advertising rely so much on scantily clad, idealised women to sell completely unrelated products?

It gave her lots to think on as she walked past the pool lagoons, the closed cocktail bars, and the spas, the saunas, everything that The Water Gardens Casino Resort used to distract its guests from their daily lives. Maybe one day, when Brienne didn’t have a case to work on, she could come and relax somewhere just like this.

Cersei’s room was close to the water, high on a cliff with a small, private infinity dip pool that was perched right atop the precipice; a private villa that cost upwards of a thousand dragons a night. During the day it would have a million dragon, unimpeded view of the Dornish Southern Sea. The beautiful turquoise water, the pristine white sands, all of it her own private paradise for hire. But there was no way to appreciate the spectacular scenery at night time, when darkness blanketed the world, making it look just like every other part of the resort. The only difference was that, occasionally, this close to the water, you could hear the waves breaking against the rocks below.

Brienne followed the footpath as it curved around the perfectly manicured garden, until it finally brought her to the front door of the villa. The frosted glass in the door glowed in the darkness, indicating that Cersei had returned here as Pia had thought. She knocked on the door, and after a moment she heard the soft click of footsteps as someone approached the door.

Cersei opened it, and the look on her face made it clear she was expecting someone, but that someone was clearly not Brienne. And then there was her outfit: a sheer red kimono wrap that ended mid-thigh which made little effort to hide the lacy underthings beneath. The seductive expression she’d been wearing dropped away into a twist of a sneer.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, and if there was any question left about whether or not Brienne’s visit was appreciated before, there was no doubt now. Brienne hadn’t felt less welcomed since her school’s senior dance. Cersei still held the door with one hand, but the other held a rather large glass of wine, from which she took a long sip.

Brienne glanced over her shoulder. She didn’t think there was anyone else around, but this was hardly a conversation she should have out in the open. “Can I come in?”

For a moment, Cersei looked as though she would refuse. She certainly didn’t look as though she was in any mood to be accommodating, but eventually she stepped to the side, heels clicking loudly against the tile floor, and opened the door a little wider. Brienne stepped inside and Cersei shut the door behind her before she turned away, heading down the hallway and back into the main living area of the villa. Brienne was left standing there awkwardly for a few moments before she followed.

The villa was ostentatiously large. The hallway opened up into a living room area that the hotel room she shared with Margaery and her passive-aggressive mess could have easily fitted inside. Yet still there was a kitchen with a well stocked wet bar, at least two bedrooms that opened off the space, and wall lined with floor-to-ceiling glass doors that opened out onto the private pool Brienne had seen on the map Pia had provided.

Cersei had returned to the kitchen, where she now stood, topping up her glass of wine from a bottle sitting atop the counter. She didn’t offer Brienne a glass but stood there, both hands pressed against the marble surface, clearly waiting for Brienne to explain her presence.

“The Stranger sent another letter,” Brienne said, looking the other woman clear in the eye. “We received it this evening, hand-delivered to our base of operations at the resort while the talent presentation was taking place.”

She took the extra copy of the letter she’d brought along with her and placed it on the counter between them, pushing it towards the other woman so she could take it if she wanted, without Brienne needing to get any closer. She hadn’t much liked her when they’d first met back in King’s Landing; Cersei’s open… intensity towards her own cousin was off-putting at best, but in some ways it could be forgiven. Jaime was attractive enough that Brienne had witnessed many a woman lose their faculties around him.

What she couldn’t allow, though, was Cersei’s strange desire to obstruct the investigation. She had promised them the world on their first meeting: open access to anything she could give them within the pageant’s organisation, but she had delayed delivery on her promises when it came down to it. Most of the information the KBI had been able to access through other means, but she surely could’ve provided it to them more quickly and then the bureau would have devoted their limited manpower to something else. Perhaps then the KBI would’ve caught The Stranger as they hand-delivered that damn letter.

Cersei pulled the letter closer with one manicured finger and cast her eyes across the words with a frown on her face. She took a sip of wine and pushed it away from her, back towards the Brienne. “This is nonsensical. What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Nothing. Agent Lannister wanted to keep you updated on the investigation, as he promised.” Brienne left the letter where it was. “And while I’m here, I need your employee records. We’re fairly certain The Stranger is here at the resort already and we need to rule out whether or not any of your pageant staff are compromised.”

“You really think that Taena from marketing is the one who set off those car bombs in Essos?” Cersei asked sardonically, before she snatched up her glass of wine and took a rather large sip. Then she rounded the counter, and gave Brienne a withering look, up and down the same way she had done when they had first met. This time, however, Brienne squared her shoulders and reared up to her full height. Even though she was, nonsensically, wearing heels with her lurid outfit, Cersei was still significantly shorter than Brienne and she was done with people trying to intimidate her.

“We need to explore every possibil--” But Cersei rolled her eyes.

“If that’s what the KBI really thinks then we’re all doomed, aren’t we?” She waved about the room with her glass, dark red liquid sloshing dangerously near the rim.

Brienne hardened her gaze. “I don’t know why you’re being so resistant. Do you _want_ something bad to happen? I’m not saying it _is_ anyone who works for the pageant, but can you prove otherwise? What if it’s been someone working under your nose this entire time and you’ve never known? We could find them before they do something unforgivable!”

“Then I suppose it would all be my fault,” Cersei snapped, before she reached out to grasp the edge of a nearby sofa and closed her eyes as though she were a little dizzy, or ill… or...

Brienne frowned. Was Cersei _drunk_? Brienne looked at the woman with fresh eyes and catalogued what she saw: cheeks flushed, her eyes glassy, and while she was steady on her heels she listed a little to one side like a poorly-baked cake. How had Brienne not seen it from the moment she’d arrived at the villa? It was obvious. And how could Cersei have possibly had the time to drink enough to be _tipsy_ already? At most she had returned to the villa half an hour ago... Unless she’d been drinking at the convention centre too…

“I didn’t say that,” Brienne said slowly, feeling a little as though she was a zookeeper responsible for calming some rabid animal that could attack at any moment. “I know this situation is a stressful one, and you’re in an incredibly difficult position here, but--”

“Mmm, yes. My _position_,” Cersei cut in, and if she had been the animal Brienne was imagining, her claws would’ve been out and ready to maul. “You. Have. No. Idea.”

Cersei’s green eyes, which Brienne had once thought so similar to Jaime’s, flashed with such venom that Brienne almost took a step back. And she would have, if she hadn’t broken the habit of backing down years ago, tired of letting others intimidate her into submission. But Brienne had nothing to apologise for; she had not done anything to Cersei. Whatever it was that the other woman was angry about, or whoever it was, Brienne was most likely just bearing the brunt of misdirected anger.

“We’re doing everything we can to find The Stranger.”

“Really? Everything you can?” Cersei laughed morbidly. “Just how is throwing knives at your fellow agents ‘doing everything you can’? You said he delivered the letter to your hotel room personally. And not one of you noticed that a notorious terrorist was there playing bellhop while he delivers your donuts and coffee. Yes, I am extremely confident we’re in safe hands…. _Gods_, this is the _last_ thing I need right now.”

That was a weird thing to say. What could she possibly have going on in her life that could be more stressful than an imminent attack by The Stranger? Brienne’s confusion must’ve shown on her face because Cersei scoffed at her, openly, then took another deep drink from her glass, emptying it in one gulp. Then she said, “Surely you’ve heard the rumours? Isn’t that your _job_ while you’re parading yourself around on stage in… that?”

Brienne glanced down at the outfit she still wore: the tights and crop with Varys’ jacket. She’d been uncomfortable wearing it, sure, but it was hardly obscene now she was covered up, especially not when compared to what Myranda had worn on stage, or rather _hadn’t_ worn on stage. But all of that was beside the point, really. “Do you mean the rumours about Petyr Baelish?”

Cersei rolled her eyes. “Baseless rumours, those, but I’m not surprised. They need to ‘smooth the way for a new generation’, after all, and what better way to do that than to ensure the old guard retire in disgrace?”

It all clicked finally, far too slowly. “You’re being fired too.”

Cersei ran a hand through her hair, pushing her beautiful golden curls back from where they’d fallen across her face and as she did, Brienne thought she saw a little shimmer in her eyes. But then she blinked and it was gone, and Cersei was glaring up at Brienne, her gaze as green and cutting as ever. “Nonsense, nothing so dramatic as that. They’re not renewing my contract. Much easier for them this way. If they'd fired me they would've had to pony up for a massive payout. Because for all their talk about _inclusion_ and _transparency_ they know that's what _really_ matters: money. No, no. Better to wait me out and then trade me in for someone younger and hotter and most importantly, cheaper. Never mind that I have run this competition single-handedly for _decades_. Without me this whole thing will burn to the ground, just you wait and see."

"Cersei," Brienne began, looking for the right words to say. Clearly she was upset, and, for all that Brienne found her unpleasant, she didn’t particularly enjoy seeing Cersei unhappy, either.

But whatever had come over Cersei that had made her divulge so much seemed to dissolve in front of Brienne’s eyes. She set her wine glass down on a nearby shelf, closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, then let it all out through flared nostrils. Within moments, she was transformed back into the pleasant woman that had graced the convention stage earlier.

She glanced about the room, before finally spying a black leather briefcase on one of the couches, which she quickly retrieved and opened. A few document folders were haphazardly tossed onto the couch cushions, one by one, spilling out their paper innards until Cersei seemingly found what she had been looking for: a USB.

Cersei set the briefcase back down roughly, and held the data stick out to Brienne. “It’s all on there. All the information Jaime asked for. Employment records for the last ten years, contestants, threats the organisation has received.” She turned away and cleared her throat. “Now you need to leave. I’m expecting someone.”

Brienne took the USB and quickly shoved it into her jacket pocket. “Cersei, I’m sorry…”

“_Don’t_,” Cersei hissed. “I don’t want your pity. I don’t need it. I’ll fix this mess myself, you just worry about The Stranger, whoever the fuck they are, so I can get on with my job.”

“I’ll make sure I keep you updated if there are any breakthroughs in the investigation,” Brienne promised instead, because that _was_ something that she could do. She couldn’t solve Cersei’s problems, and frankly she wasn’t sure she wanted to. But she certainly wanted to stop The Stranger before they could hurt anyone involved in this competition, even if that included Cersei.

“Fine.” Cersei glared. “Just don’t come back here. Find me at the convention centre if you have to.”

Some of the papers Cersei had pulled from the briefcase finally overbalanced and toppled to the floor. Perhaps the Miss Westerosi thing to do would’ve been to help her gather them up, back into the briefcase, but Cersei wouldn’t have appreciated the gesture. Brienne pointedly glanced down at the papers. “I’ll leave you to fix your mess, then,” she said, and turned to leave.

But as she did, one leaf of paper caught her eye. Familiar in its layout and its typography, and though she was too far away to read the words, surely it had been sent by the very same person who had authored the one still laying on Cersei’s kitchen counter.

It was _another_ letter from The Stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? 🙂
> 
> Come yell at me on [tumblr](http://slipsthrufingers.tumblr.com) about it!


	13. Chapter 12 - The Disagreement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne tells Jaime what she discovered at Cersei's villa which leaves the two at odds.

It was a letter from The Stranger. There was no way it could be anything else. The KBI hadn’t even released decoded versions to the press; all they’d been told was that they sent letters to law enforcement agencies in advance of the attacks. The higher-ups had feared copy-cats if they were too public with it, so they’d withheld the specific details.

And yet. Cersei Baratheon had one. It even looked like it was printed on the same paper stock.

Could _she_ be The Stranger? She didn’t remotely fit the profile!

But before Brienne could investigate any further or grab the letter from where it had fallen by the sofa, Cersei bent down and swept the mess up into a pile which she kept clutched close to her chest, then she looked up and levelled a positively poisonous glare at Brienne.

“You know the way out,” she said, and to call her tone vicious was underselling it. “I’m _not_ walking you to the door, you’re a grown woman.”

Brienne had to think quickly. She could confront the other woman about it directly, but that could backfire very easily. Maybe she could find a way to delay leaving, or trip Cersei up so that she’d drop the papers again and Brienne could snatch them up and run-- she’d be quicker, her legs were _much_ longer, and she’d been on the athletics team back in high school. But they were all such impulsive actions, and the last time she had been impulsive on a mission Jaime had been horrifically hurt. 

Or she could wait. She could wait and watch. The profile the KBI had worked up said the Stranger was likely a male, young, probably underemployed. Cersei wasn’t any of those things, despite her news that the board was going with someone else next year. 

The decision was made for her, though, because before she could decide what to do there came another knock at the door. Cersei turned her head at the noise, then groaned, a frustrated, choked thing pushed through clenched teeth.

“I’ll just--” Brienne pointed over her shoulder, dragging her eyes away from the stack of papers, which Cersei shoved back into the leather briefcase and shut it with a click. It had some sort of lock on the side which Brienne hadn’t noticed earlier, but didn’t have time to examine in any more detail because Cersei was already shepherding her out of the room and back down the hallway. Brienne had no choice but to leave.

Cersei opened the door with her free hand to reveal Petyr Baelish standing there with a bottle of champagne in his hands.

“I know you said you wanted _Dom Arboriem_, but - oh! I didn’t realise you had a visitor!” Baelish turned his practised, saccharine smile on Brienne and, knowing what Varys had told her of the man, it made her skin crawl.

“Brienne was just leaving,” Cersei said quickly, stepping back to give Brienne room to depart and Petyr room to come inside. 

“Brie,” Brienne corrected her pointedly. “Like the cheese.”

Cersei didn’t say anything, but the tight lines at the edges of her lips made it clear there were quite a few things she _wanted_ to say, but was trying her very best not to. It was an admirable display of self-control.

“Yes, you should be getting back to your room, Miss Cockshaw,” Baelish said smoothly, as he stepped between the two women to enter the villa. As he passed, Brienne caught a whiff of his cologne, which must have been freshly applied because it was overpoweringly strong. “I’d hate to think what the other contestants would think of you if they were to find out you were here so late. I wouldn’t want any untoward rumours to start about your presence here.”

Brienne knew a threat when she heard one. There was no way she’d be able to get her hands on that letter now. She’d have to figure out another way to get access to it, though how, she had no idea. It was an agonising thing, knowing that a clue was literally within her grasp but she’d have to walk away from it and leave it behind. 

“Thank you for your time, Ms Baratheon,” she said, reluctantly stepping across the threshold. Cersei didn’t reply, just shut the door behind her. The lock clicked with a finality that felt, to Brienne, like a punch to the gut. For a moment she stood there on the doorstep, almost paralysed with frustration at herself for not thinking more quickly, running the entire interaction over in her mind to see if there was anything else she’d missed while they’d been talking. Cersei had wanted her out of there as quickly as possible, but that was understandable given that she was expecting someone else. And that it was _Peter Baelish_ of all people was a bit of a shock in and of itself. Cersei’s annoyance and shortness could be explained easily enough, and she _had_ given Brienne the information the KBI had requested. That was something.

It was a long walk back to headquarters, but at least she wasn’t walking back empty-handed, and she would tell Jaime about what she’d seen. Perhaps he’d have an idea of how to get their hands on Cersei’s letter.

* * *

By the time Brienne arrived back at the headquarters, the room had settled into a quieter, more productive panic. It was clear that everyone there was stressed, but they had things to do, they had direction, so it wasn’t quite so manic. One or two people looked her way when she entered, disrupted by the sound of the door opening and closing, but they quickly returned to whatever their assigned task was. 

Brienne scanned the room, quickly finding who she was after. Jaime was back outside on the balcony, sitting at the small table there poring over a laptop. He looked stressed, his soft curls frayed and messy, as though he had spent many hours running his hand through his hair, and she had to, weirdly, resist the urge to reach out and set it right. Instead, as she stepped out onto the balcony she said, “I got it,” and pulled the USB out of her pocket.

He looked up and brightened, and it was like watching a flower get its first drops of rain, or sunshine; he wasn’t _completely_ back to his usual effortless beauty, but the perkiness made up for it.

“Excellent,” he said and smiled at her. “I knew you could get it.”

Brienne passed the USB over to him, and he immediately plugged it into the side of the laptop, having to flip it over once or twice to get it to go in the right way, but he still struggled--he was still having difficulty adjusting to doing so much with his left hand--so she took it back, spun the laptop around a little to face her, plugged it in herself then turned it back to face him. He looked a little embarrassed, at his inability to complete such a simple task, but didn’t say anything about it. Instead he opened the file directory to access the drive. A few clicks later and the documents they’d requested from Cersei filled the screen, all sorted into folders: employee records, contestant records, threats.

“Everything’s here,” Jaime said. “I’ll get Hyle to get his team to cross-reference all of it with what they have so far. 

“Can I check something?” she asked, hesitantly, and maybe it was because he was tired, but Jaime just shrugged and pushed the laptop in her direction. She took a seat in the chair opposite him. It was plastic, uncomfortable and not made for people of her stature, but it’d been a long day and she needed to sit down for a moment. The table, too, was not made to be shared by two people their height; her knees immediately knocked against his, and she had to angle them away, which somehow meant she was sitting a little closer to him again. 

But she ignored the discomfort and opened the ‘threats’ folder on the screen which contained, mostly, scanned copies of threatening letters that the pageant had received over the past five years. It was about what she’d expected: threats from people who thought the pageant was, variously, immoral, disgusting, too prudish or too vapid. That the competition took advantage of women, that the competition encouraged unrealistic beauty standards, that they were bowing to PC culture by letting “fat chicks compete”-- it seemed there was no one who was happy with the competition as it was and felt that it could only be improved by catering to the, sometimes horrific and violent whims of whichever obsessive maniac was motivated enough to send a letter.

Each letter, each threat in and of itself was horrible, but the one Brienne was looking for she couldn’t find. She’d thought, perhaps, that the reason Cersei had a letter from The Stranger in her possession was because it had been one of the many threats she’d scanned onto the USB for the KBI, and given that they’d never released copies of the original letters, how was she to know what she’d been sent a letter by the notorious terrorist?

But it wasn’t there. And Brienne certainly would’ve recognised it if it was.

“What are you looking for?” Jaime asked, sounding extremely weary. He was resting his cheek against his fist, and though his eyes were open, it looked as if he could fall asleep at any moment.

“I think Cersei has a letter from The Stranger,” she said. “Some of her paperwork spilled onto the floor while I was over there and I thought I saw… It looked _exactly_ like the ones we’ve received.”

That got Jaime’s attention. He blinked a little and lifted his face from his fist--it had left a weird crease across his cheek. “What?”

“I couldn’t get it from her, she tidied it all up before I could get a closer look. I thought it might’ve been one of the threats she scanned for us, but there’s nothing here.” She waved her hand at the computer screen, which still displayed one of the letters the pageant had received. _DIE BITCHES DIE_, had been spelled out in a substance she _hoped_ wasn’t blood. “I only saw it for a second, but I _swear_, the layout, the font. It even looked like the same kind of paper.”

He frowned in confusion. “Why wouldn’t she have given it to us?”

That Brienne couldn’t answer. “She didn’t want me there - kept trying to get me to leave - but before I could figure out a way to grab the letter Petyr Baelish arrived.”

“_Baelish?_” Jaime seemed as surprised as she’d been, and now looked a little more awake. Still, she could watch every thought flit across his face as he processed the information. “They’ve been working together for years. I’m sure they’re friends.”

Brienne shook her head, remembering the red kimono barely covering what was probably some _very_ expensive lingerie. And the bottle of champagne in Baelish’s hands. “No. I don’t think so. Not _friends_.”

“Oh.” It was a sign of his tiredness, that it took a few seconds for him to make the connection. “_Oh._”

Brienne sighed. “Yeah.”

“Really?” His mouth twisted in disgust.

“Well it _looked_ like that, at least,” she said. “So I guess that explains why she wanted me gone, but I’m sure of what I saw. And he all but threatened me to leave.”

Jaime was silent for a few moments, clearly thinking again, until he groaned in frustration and scrubbed his hands across his face. Finally, he said, “Maybe she doesn’t know what it is.”

“I thought that too, but then I remembered: I brought a copy of the letter _we_ received yesterday to show her. I left it on her kitchen counter. She’d recognise the similarities, I’m sure.”

“And how did she react?” Jaime asked.

Brienne replayed the interaction in her mind, trying to remember if there’d been any hint, any sign that Cersei had seen something like it before. “She said it was nonsense. That it didn’t make any sense. It didn’t seem suspicious to me at the time; I just thought she was trying to get rid of me.”

What Brienne didn’t add was that Cersei’s facial expressions were particularly hard to read, stiff as they were thanks to a heavy reliance on botox. Maybe she had been shocked, or surprised, but her eyebrows just couldn’t move that way anymore.

Jaime’s face, however, contorted into a frown easily, eyebrows drawing together in concentration and again, Brienne was reminded of the position he was in, the pressure he was under. But she had no idea how she could help other than to do what she was already doing.

“All right,” he finally said, leaning his head from side to side to stretch out the muscles in his neck. She could hear the joints crack from where she was sitting. It made her want to wince. “I’ll have someone look into it tomorrow after Selmy arrives.”

Brienne blinked. “Tomorrow?” She checked the time on his laptop, since Varys had taken her watch from her days ago. 1.02am. Technically it already _was_ tomorrow.

“What am I supposed to do about it _now_?” he said sharply and it was Brienne’s turn to be taken by surprise. He hadn’t spoken to her in that kind of tone for years. Not since the very beginning of their partnership. “I can’t get a warrant at this time, even if we had something more substantial to go on than what you _think_ you saw.”

“What I _think_ \- I _did_ see it. I know what I saw.” She said it firmly, because she _was_ sure. 

“I’m not saying you didn’t. I’m saying no magistrate in their right mind would give me a warrant on that alone. Especially not if I wake them up at this time of night,” said Jaime defensively, but there was something else there too. Something else he wasn’t saying. Brienne could see in the square of his shoulders that he was holding something back, something he wasn’t sure he should say.

“What is it?” she said, pressing him, all the while fearing the answer. Her ribs felt too tight.

And then he did the worst possible thing he could’ve done. He _hesitated_.

“Don’t you believe me?” she asked, hating how edgy her voice became. She didn’t mean for it to come out that way, but it did.

“No. That’s not it--”

“Then what are you not saying?” she cut in, heart pounding. Suddenly terrified. 

He ran his hand through his hair before it finally exploded from him. “This doesn’t make any _sense!_” 

“What?” she said, confused.

“The Stranger. These letters. They’re playing us for fools and we have _no idea_ what they want. Nothing. And then suddenly you see this letter in Cersei’s possession. Does that seem right to you? She’s crazy, sure, but do you _really_ think she would poison _hundreds_ at a wedding? Or bomb the Sept of Baelor?”

Cersei’s voice came into her head, then. _Without me this whole thing will burn to the ground, just you wait and see, _she’d said, angry and righteous. Brienne, at that moment, had had no problem believing her capable of violence.

“I think that people are capable of anything, given the right pressures,” Brienne said, slowly, carefully. “I think dismissing her because she seems too… too easy… It could be a big mistake.”

Jaime, however, wasn’t convinced. “Okay. Let’s say it _is_ another letter from The Stranger. It’s probably still encrypted. It would’ve seemed like nonsense to her. And do we know if the briefcase is even hers? I’ve known her since I was a kid and she has never been the type to carry a briefcase.” 

He’d never questioned her like this before and it left her confused and a little hurt. Since when did he not trust her judgement? He was one of the few who always had. “She got the USB out of it. Who else could it belong to?”

“Joffrey? An assistant? Baelish!” Jaime leaned over to tap the USB sharply. “I sincerely doubt Cersei compiled the information on here by herself. She probably got someone else to do it for her. They could have delivered it along with the briefcase.”

As frustrating as it was, she had to concede he had made a fair point. Cersei didn’t seem the type to do something as menial as data collation, not when she had people who could do that for her. But whether or not that was true, it didn’t change what Brienne had _seen_. Cersei had a letter from The Stranger. She had it and she hadn’t given it over to the KBI. Whether or not she knew what it was, or even whether she knew she had it in her possession, it was definitely worthy of investigation. And the longer they left it, the more chances there were of it disappearing. She could throw it out, or whoever owned the briefcase could collect it and then they’d be back at square one with nothing. It didn’t seem to Brienne that Jaime appreciated the time constraints they likely faced. “We need to move on this quickly, Jaime. We’re running out of time. We know it's in Cersei's villa _now_.”

“And who should I send to retrieve it? I can't send you. You need to be preparing for tomorrow. Everyone else has something to do. We're stretched thin as it is and you need to trust me. I’ll make sure we look into it, but…but...” and he trailed off, clearly distracted by a thought he hadn’t voiced. That was unusual for him. He was usually so composed when he spoke, so it was a surprise when he finally said, slowly and with conviction, “But they’re _fucking_ with us, Brienne.”

There was a long beat, the length of several breaths before she felt she could speak with an even voice. She didn’t know what to say. “What?”

“They’re fucking with us.”

“Who is?” she asked carefully.

“_The Stranger._ They’re playing some sick, twisted _game_ with us and they’re doing it with people’s _lives_.” Jaime said, and to call him frustrated didn’t come anywhere close to describing his mood. He stood and began to pace the short length of the balcony, practically radiating agitation. “Isn’t it weird that this was the _first_ letter we’ve ever been able to decode _before_ an attack? They figured it out in an afternoon--every other one took us _weeks_. Then, when we’re neck deep in this investigation, already invested with an agent in deep cover they hand deliver a letter _to our hotel room_, letting us know they know we’re onto them. And now you’ve probably found _another_ one? And you’ve found it in the hands of someone we cleared of involvement _this afternoon_. That’s too many coincidences for me.”

Brienne blinked. Cersei had been cleared? She hadn’t known that. Jaime took a look at her, huffed, then leaned down to use the computer, navigating the trackpad with purpose. A few clicks later and another document had opened for her to see. As he did this, he explained, “After Varys told us about Baelish, I had Hyle take a closer look at him and the rest of the organisation, _including_ Cersei. During the Blackwater University attack and the Red Wedding she was in the Summer Isles at a clinic being treated for alcoholism. Court ordered.”

Brienne skimmed the document quickly. It was admittance paperwork that covered a two month period the year before when both attacks had occurred. And if it was court ordered then she wouldn’t have been allowed out on day trips.

“You didn’t tell me,” she said, and she fought the urge to stand and pace. The balcony wasn’t big enough for _both_ of them to do that. Instead she set her hands down carefully on the arms of the chair and gripped it tightly with her fingers.

“Like I said, we only found out this afternoon. You were busy,” Jaime explained without apologising. Not that he needed to. He didn’t have to report _everything_ to her. It was _his_ job to know everything, not hers. But she didn’t have time to feel hurt, because he wasn’t done. He continued on, irritation oozing from his every word. “But that’s just one part of this clusterfuck of an investigation. Selmy insists we use that profile that the Behavioural Science unit worked up, but that profile is _useless_. It was built on scraps and presumptions and speculation. It’s… Just. Okay… Pretend you’d never heard of The Stranger. Other than the name is there anything that connects the attacks? Anything at all?”

Brienne shrugged. “The letters.”

“Ignore those. It’s all part of the act. They’ve used a different method _every_ time. Poisoning. Sniper rifle. C4. Car Bombings. Automatic weapon. What terrorist do you know of that changes their method of attack every time? None. They usually pick one thing and perfect it. Or die trying.”

That, too, was true. Brienne wasn’t sure why she’d never really thought about that before. Everyone had always talked about The Stranger like they were this impossibly clever person, like they were the god they’d chosen as their namesake. But if you took the name away and just looked at the attacks themselves… They didn’t make sense.

“So what does that tell you?” Jaime prodded.

“I wouldn’t think they were the same person,” she said finally.

Though she had come to the conclusion slowly, it clicked in a way that felt _right_. The authorities had been hunting this mysterious figure for years now, never able to say anything about them with any kind of certainty because they’d been looking for an individual. But did they actually have any evidence to support that? No.

_Fuck_.

Jaime was watching her process it all. His arms were folded across his chest, but loosely--he looked a little bit more collected than he’d been when she’d first got back here. And she understood why. He’d probably had this theory bottled up inside him for a while, knowing how crazy it would seem to anyone else, so he’d kept it to himself. And now he’d told her. Or he’d led her to draw the same conclusion he’d made. It wasn’t his burden to shoulder alone anymore.

Brienne swallowed. “So we’re looking for more than one person. A network, you think?”

“Likely,” Jaime said, then sighed and finally returned to his seat. His knees knocked against Brienne’s again, but this time she didn’t shift them away. She was too tired.

They sat there in silence for some time. Brienne going back over everything she’d seen, thought, done in the last few days, reframing it all in her mind given this new hypothesis, looking at it in this new light. Whatever Jaime was thinking, she couldn’t say for sure, but what she was sure of was that he was as tired as she was but _his_ bags weren’t covered up with makeup.

“Come on. Let’s get to bed,” she said, tapping him on the thigh.

“I can’t,” he protested, stretching his arms and legs where he sat in his chair, which made him look a little perkier but then he undid all that good work by yawning. “I have too much to do.”

“You can afford two hours’ sleep. Maybe even three,” she said, then stood and held out a hand to lift him up. Jaime looked at it but didn’t take it, equal parts petulant and fond. She rolled her eyes. “You won’t be able to convince Selmy of anything if you can’t keep your eyes open in the briefing.”

It took a moment, but eventually he sighed and took the offered hand. Brienne pulled him up so that he was standing, only their clasped hands still between them. She could feel his breath on her neck before he began to smile, like he’d just thought of something funny.

“What is it?” she asked, letting go of his hand.

“This is the first time in days we’ve been the same height,” he said, then bounced up onto tippy toes so that he overtopped her by a fraction of an inch.

She laughed. “I’m always taller than you.”

“Yeah, but those heels!” he tapped her ankle gently with the inside of his foot. “All this looking up at you was starting to hurt my neck.”

“You’re ridiculous.” She rolled her eyes again before opening the balcony door. The hotel room was still quiet as the agents continued their work into the early hours of the morning.

“No, I like it. Don’t get me wrong,” Jaime said in a whisper as they walked through the room to the main door.

She opened it and led them out into the hallway. The lights were dimmed, given the hour, but she could still see him well enough. His smile now was downright cheeky. She prodded him in the direction of his own room a few doors down. “You _definitely_ need to get some sleep.”

“Fine. I’ll see you back here in a few hours?”

“Yeah,” she agreed.

“Sleep well, Brienne” he said, opening his own door.

“You too,” she said, then began the long walk back to her own room, wondering what excuse she’d give Margaery to explain her absence _this_ time. Hopefully she’d think of something by the morning. 

* * *

They watched the agents on the screen go their separate ways. Him to his room and her taking the long way back to hers.

Everything they’d planned was working. The seeds had been planted. A butterfly flapping its wings causing a hurricane in Dorne.

_Time for phase two_, he sent to the others. He didn’t have to wait long for a reply.

_Copy that. _They sent back. It was quickly followed by another message containing a photo attachment. _Like the set up_? 

He smiled. This was going to be spectacular.

_It’ll be a show stopper._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who helped me with this chapter. Especially Firesign who talked me down off a ledge last night.
> 
> I am back at work on Wednesday after a wonderful five week holiday. I'm hoping to keep up posting around once a week, but it's possible things will slow down a bit. Just know that I have every intention of continuing to pump this monster out if it kills me.
> 
> Remember you can come yell at me on [tumblr](http://slipsthrufingers.tumblr.com) anytime you want.


	14. Chapter 13 - The Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Assistant Director Selmy arrives in Dorne to oversee the operation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, life has been rough for us all, but on the upside I have two weeks off before I have to go back to work which means a bit more time to devote to my WIPs. Thank you for your patience, and hopefully the next update will not be such a long time coming. Everyone stay safe, stay inside and wash your hands!
> 
> Also, the wonderful Samirant commissioned some fanart from knifeears for me for my birthday which is amazing and [here](https://slipsthrufingers.tumblr.com/post/613318306844295168/slipsthrufingers-samirant-knifeears). Please go and tell her how amazing it is!!!

It was wishful thinking on Brienne’s part to hope that she’d actually get any sleep. Between the revelation she and Jaime had had about The Stranger and the knowledge that within a few hours Selmy would be arriving to oversee the rest of the investigation, there was little chance she’d get any rest at all until it was all over and done with. And then there was Cersei and Baelish; it was clear they were up to something, but what that was precisely Brienne couldn’t say. 

Which was nothing compared to whatever it was The Stranger actually had planned for the competition. Brienne was haunted by possibilities: what if she had missed a vital clue? What if she had talked to one of The Stranger—Strangers?—and hadn’t known? What if she didn’t figure it out in time and they were able to follow through on whatever their actual plan was?

Her only saving grace was that Margaery was already sound asleep by the time Brienne returned to their hotel room, and therefore couldn’t interrogate her about her non-existent affair with “Varys’s delicious assistant”.

She changed out of the activewear Varys had provided her with what felt like _days_ earlier, though it really had only been a few hours before. So much had happened in the intervening time it was hard to believe linear time still existed, especially when she stood in the bathroom in her ratty cotton pyjamas and brushing her teeth like it was just another normal day.

But it wasn’t a normal day. Nothing about this situation was _normal_. She was a goddamn beauty queen investigating an anonymous international terrorist group, _maybe_. It was like she had fallen down the rabbit hole and was now living in a nightmarish, terribly realistic Wonderland.

Still, before she switched off the lights and climbed into bed, she went through the rest of the night-time skin-care regime that Varys and Satin had demanded of her. Margaery was still asleep, snoring lightly, but though Brienne was deeply exhausted, mentally, physically, emotionally, sleep did not come easily. She couldn’t even blame her roommate’s snoring—her police academy roommate had snored like a chainsaw and Brienne had had to learn to deal with it. 

No, it was everything else: The Stranger, Cersei, Baelish, Jaime, Selmy…

And on top of it all the crushing fear that everything she was doing—all of the hoops she was jumping through, the makeover, the talent performance, the upcoming bikini competition and interview—that it wouldn’t be enough to stop The Stranger’s attack. People would be hurt, they could die, and she would have to live with the guilt of not having stopped it in time.

So when her alarm went off at 5.30am, it felt as though she’d only just managed to fall asleep. She dragged her eyes open and sat up to silence her phone before it woke Margaery and her questions. It was still dark in the room, though a sliver of dawn light was peeking through the edges of the curtains. The briefing with Selmy would start in half an hour. She had just enough time for a quick shower before she returned to the KBI’s hotel room to be by Jaime’s side and tell the director they didn’t have answers to his questions.

* * *

The shower had her feeling slightly more human but it was the coffee that Pia shoved in her hands once she arrived back at the makeshift headquarters that really revived her. The room was busy once more; practically every agent working on the case was packed into the room, including the ‘contractors’ they’d hired to supplement the operation—Varys and Satin. Though a quick scan of the room told her Selmy hadn’t arrived yet, the vibe of the agents present told her he’d be arriving any minute.

Selmy wasn’t the only one missing.

“Where is Jaime?” she asked Pia, before she took a long gulp of coffee. It was black, but Pia had snuck a few sugars into the cup, probably when Varys had been distracted, and she was grateful. 

“He met Selmy at the airport. He messaged me just before saying they were five minutes away,” Pia explained. Like everyone else in the room she looked tired, but Brienne worried more about her than she did about Hyle or Mark. The woman was six months pregnant, and though Brienne had never been pregnant herself she was well aware how tiring it was.

Still, she knew enough not to comment on it. Pia was a grown woman who could look after herself. She didn’t need Brienne hovering over her.

“Anything I need to know before they get here?” she asked, scanning the room to see if there was anything on any of the whiteboards that indicated a clue or a lead that might have come to light in the three hours she’d tried to ‘sleep’.

“That we’re fucked?” Pia joked, though there was nothing joyous in it. 

Brienne lowered her voice. “Did Jaime tell you his theory?”

Pia frowned. “What theory?”

But before Brienne could fill her in, the main door opened to admit an exhausted-looking Jaime with Selmy following closely behind. The room, which had been bubbling with discussion, fell silent very quickly as the two men appeared. To say the director looked unhappy was an understatement. Brienne hadn’t seen him look this angry since he’d debriefed her after the Dothraki incident.

It set her stomach on edge and she looked to Jaime to gauge his mood. Perhaps Selmy was just jetlagged, or was suffering from a particularly bad case of Resting Dick Face today.

But no. Jaime looked harangued. The lines on his forehead, which sometimes made him look infuriatingly distinguished, instead made him look like he’d aged ten years and not in a good way. Brienne felt a flash of concern tingle up her spine; for a second the urge to cross the room and smooth out those frown-lines was all she could think of. 

She _must_ be tired.

Jaime cleared his throat, “All right everybody. Listen up,” he said, though it was a bit redundant, because there wasn’t a person in the room who wasn’t already waiting for Selmy to speak. Jaime turned and ceded the floor to the director.

For a few moments the man stood there in silence, letting everyone else simmer in anticipation of the castigation they were surely about to receive. When he finally spoke, it was with an even, quiet tone that usually signalled he was _well_ beyond pissed. “Agent Lannister has filled me in on the way over with the progress of the investigation, and I have to say I expected better results than this. We started with a lead other agents would’ve killed to find and it seems to me that almost every damn person assigned to this case has dropped the ball.”

Brienne’s stomach clenched painfully. This was going to hurt.

“Which agent came up with the ridiculous name ‘Brie Cockshaw’?” he asked, pointing at her with an accusatory finger. “That’s exactly the kind of idiocy that draws attention to someone, puts our undercover agent at risk of exposure. _Especially_ given the increased profile of this event and this investigation.”

Brienne worked hard to keep the surprise from her face. Of all the things for Selmy to criticise, she hadn’t thought he’d start with that. She thought he would target _her_ first and her ridiculous attempt to be taken seriously as a pageant contestant.

On the other side of the room Ron moved very carefully to the side, slowly enough that he didn’t draw attention to himself, but so that he was firmly hidden behind Mark Mullendore’s more considerable bulk.

“It’s no wonder The Stranger has figured out we’re here,” Selmy continued. “Why didn’t we get the damn man’s face on camera when he delivered the letter?”

No one answered. How could they answer, when there was no answer to give? How could they possibly have predicted The Stranger would, firstly, know of the investigation and secondly, hand deliver another threat directly to them with their room service lunch order?

“Ser, we weren’t expecting they’d know we were here,” Jaime said, “We have limited resources and we thought it better to monitor the performance arenas instead of the accommodation.”

“And who made that decision?”

Hyle began to raise his hand, which surprised Brienne. He wasn’t the self-sacrificial type. But before Selmy could thoroughly rip him to shreds, Jaime intervened again. “I approved the surveillance plan, ser.”

Selmy turned on Jaime. “Maybe I made a mistake making you lead agent so soon after—”

Brienne couldn’t stand by any longer. She spoke up. “He’s doing the best he can with the limited information and budget we have. And we have better leads today than we did yesterday.”

Behind Selmy, Jaime’s eyes widened in shock and he stepped forward slightly with a hand outstretched to silence her, to turn Selmy’s attention back on him, but it was too late. The director wheeled around on her this time. “And what exactly have _you_ done to contribute to the investigation, Tarth?” he said, eyes narrowing.

It was exactly the question she had been agonising over for days. What _had_ she actually done? She’d worn some pretty, revealing clothing and had tried to make friends with a few young women who had no idea of the threat that loomed over their heads. She had thought she’d found a lead with Cersei, only later finding out about the woman’s ironclad alibi. It was infuriating.

But she couldn’t admit any of that to Selmy, nor any of the others in the room, except, perhaps, Jaime, and certainly not now. He needed her to keep it together and she owed him that after what had happened to his hand. 

And it was unfair of Selmy to criticise them so soon into the investigation, without knowing all the facts and without giving proper consideration to what they _had_ achieved.

“I have been doing everything I can,” she said firmly, remembering Vary’s advice to _stand tall_ and _look them in the eye_. She didn’t have her heels on, but even without them she was much taller than Selmy and broader too. It wasn’t that she would challenge Selmy to a fight right here in the middle of the hotel room—he was still her superior officer—but if she _did_, she would certainly win. “As has everyone else here, given the time constraints and the information we have.”

Selmy plainly wasn’t impressed. “It’s not good enough.”

“Well what else are we supposed to have done?” She didn’t know why she was saying it. If Jaime had been shocked before, he was horrified now, his skin pale and his jaw dropped open. But Selmy wasn’t being _fair_. Not a single person in this room had had enough sleep these past five days, they were understaffed and working with the fumes of clues rather than any kind of promising lead. It was all well and good to demand the best from your agents, but no one could be working at their best in a situation like this. Not her, not Hyle. No one.

When Selmy didn’t answer, Brienne continued on. “It’s clear The Stranger has been monitoring the KBI’s investigation of them for a while now and we only just noticed. And you’re angry that we’re only just now catching up?”

“So you believe Lannister’s theory then?” The way Selmy said that made it clear just what he thought of Jaime’s theory about The Stranger being a syndicate rather than an individual, which only made Brienne more incensed.

Jaime seemed to sense as much. He stepped forward this time, holding his hand out to quiet Brienne before she could defend him. It sent a frisson of something through her—frustration, anxiety, pleasure, it was hard to say—seeing him step up to take charge so publicly, even if it meant he was in the firing line.

But she couldn’t let him stand alone. “Yes,” she said firmly. “I believe The Stranger is a group of people and not just one man. It’s the only theory I’ve heard so far that makes sense of everything we know.”

Around the room the other agents reacted to the theory in various ways. Pia’s eyes widened. Hyle looked between Jaime and Brienne, his brow furrowed with confusion. Varys, who had been standing at the back of the room, observing the meeting but not participating, looked proud.

But none of those reactions mattered. It was just Selmy, and what he thought. So she kept her focus on him, her head held high, channelling all of the confidence tricks that Varys had taught her these last few days. _Confidence is an illusion_, he had said, and it felt to her that all her time around the beautiful contestants, the time on stage, going toe-to-toe with Cersei, all of it had been in preparation for this.

“There is no evidence to prove it,” Selmy said with a frown.

“There’s no evidence to prove it’s one person acting alone,” Brienne countered.

Jaime stepped forward. “We’ve been working on the assumption that The Stranger is an individual since they first claimed responsibility for the Red Wedding. But what if that’s been our problem all along? Trying to pin down one person when it never was one. A mass-poisoning, car bombings, shootings, assassinations, can you think of _any_ single criminal who is that varied in their methods?”

He wasn’t really speaking to Selmy any more, but to the rest of the room, and Brienne could see it was working. She could see the slow glaze of realisation trickling across about half the faces in the room. The other half seemed pale and scared, and Brienne couldn’t blame them for that reaction either. To chase an individual seemed achievable. To chase an unknown, unpredictable number of suspects was nothing short of terrifying.

Hyle spoke up then. “They’re probably using the internet. My friend in VICE has been bitching about the spider web to me for months.”

Somewhat surprisingly, Pod emerged from the clump of agents he’d been buried between, hand raised meekly. Brienne didn’t often think of things as ‘adorable’ in her head, but it was hard to think of any other description that would suit in this case. Jaime saw him too and called on him, “Yes, Pod?”

“It’s actually called the dark web. It’s a hotbed of illegal activity. Very hard to trace, easy to maintain anonymity. The KBI have been struggling to keep on top of it and criminals know it and they’ve been moving their outfits there. The Night’s Watch have been trying to infiltrate it for months because they think that’s how Mance Rayder is coordinating with the wildlings.” It was the longest speech she’d ever heard from Pod that wasn’t stalled by his stutter. A blossom of something like pride bloomed in her belly. She wasn’t the only one gaining confidence.

Selmy was still frowning, and at some point in the last minute he’d crossed his arms in front of his chest. But the fact that he hadn’t shouted them down seemed positive enough. He spoke directly to Pod now. “If they are organising using this… dark web thing… could you trace it?”

Pod blinked. He clearly hadn’t expected he would be asked a direct question. “Hard to say. I can try.”

“I can help,” offered Hyle, moving to stand a little closer to the younger agent. “I can see if my friend in Vice can assist too.”

Selmy turned to Jaime and Brienne then, looking between the two of them with narrowed eyes. The scepticism and doubt was palpable. The last time he had looked at her like that had been after the fallout of the Dothraki incident. That had been her lowest moment. Her biggest failure. She’d almost quit the Bureau after that. 

But it felt different this time, with Jaime standing there beside her. It didn’t feel quite so terrifying. And she was there supporting Jaime too. Her hand only inches away from his mangled one. She could take it if she wanted. But she wouldn’t. She trusted him. She trusted his judgement. She clung to that instead.

“Fine.” 

That one word was like a physical weight off her shoulders. Beside her she felt Jaime relax a little too, which warmed her even further. 

“You can follow this line of inquiry. I’ll talk to the director about seeing whether cyber crimes can help supplement your investigation.” Selmy said this last bit directly to Pod, who frankly looked terrified at the prospect of owning _any_ investigation, but he nodded and hadn’t visibly started sweating yet. So that was a positive.

He turned back to Jaime. “It’s your neck on the line here, Lannister.”

But Jaime didn’t quail. “Understood, ser.”

“And Tarth has to keep up her undercover role. I don’t want you underestimating the credible physical threat here. Old-fashioned police work still has its place.”

She hesitated a moment, but still nodded. “Yes ser.”

Varys stepped forward then, gliding across the room to take Brienne gently by the elbow. He shot an ingratiating smile at Selmy. “Now that you mention it, Assistant Director, I need the contestant. We have some preparation to do.”

Brienne couldn’t remember precisely what it was she was supposed to be doing with Varys this morning—the lack of sleep and breakfast hadn’t done her concentration any favours—but she trusted that Varys would only be drawing her away from the investigation at this point if it was something important. So she nodded her agreement.

“Very well,” Selmy nodded and waved her away. “I’ll check in with you later. You’re dismissed.”

Jaime turned to her before Varys could lead her from the room. His mouth was open, as though he were just about to say something, however something flitted across his face and he thought better of it. He closed his mouth and nodded at her in farewell. But his eyes held a promise. _Talk later_.

They would.

* * *

It turned out that the important preparation Varys had scheduled for her was interview practice. And not for the job that she would need after this ridiculous investigation was finally over. It hadn’t been discussed directly, but after such a public undercover assignment she would need to reconsider her career pathway. Hopefully she’d be able to stay in the bureau, but any kind of undercover work from now on out would probably be off the table. Not that she’d done much before, but still.

No, this interview preparation was the other kind. At this evening’s gala there would be _two_ competition segments, one of which was the interview. Contestants were asked complex questions that could cover a vast number of topics, ranging from popular culture, to ethics, to geopolitical economic policy, and answers were restricted to twenty seconds. Practically an impossible feat when one had years to prepare, and Brienne was given hours. 

The other segment was the bikini competition.

Brienne wasn’t sure which one she feared more.

Varys had whisked her away to his suite where he had had Satin set up a makeshift interview stage in the living room with two tall chairs. She was wearing a ‘placeholder’ gown, as the navy blue jumpsuit she had decided on the other day was still with the seamstress so the final alterations could be made. 

Varys was sitting across from her with a stack of interview cards and he had handed her a hairbrush to hold as a stand-in microphone. He shuffled the cards in his hands, reading a few before deciding on one he seemed to like. He read it out in a clear, even voice, a little deeper than his usual lyrical tone. “Westeros is experiencing a high rate of housing insecurity and homelessness. What would you do to combat the issue?”

She tried to concentrate on the question. Homelessness, what did she know about that? And what was the difference between homelessness and housing insecurity? She knew they didn’t mean security systems—cameras and the like, but that was all her brain had thought of when he used the phrase.

“You’ll need to think more quickly than that, Brie,” Varys admonished her, tapping her knee lightly with the stark of cards.

Brienne looked up at him, not bothering to try to hide her irritation. She knew that. Of course she knew that. But knowing that and doing that were two completely different things at this stage. It was like her head was filled with so much information that she didn’t know where to start thinking. How was she supposed to think about these ridiculous questions when the puzzle of The Stranger was occupying so much of her brain power?

Why couldn’t that be a question instead? _‘Should authorities be doing more to catch and punish the notorious terrorist The Stranger?’_

“I’m trying,” she said, and then as though her body was coming to her defence, she yawned. A jaw cracking, eye-watering yawn.

Varys sighed. He tucked the cards into a pocket in his jacket while retrieving his mobile phone from a different pocket. He began typing out a message to someone as he spoke. “I’ll see what I can do about getting you a bit of rest, but I think you’ll have to make do with some caffeine pills. No sugar and no food until after the bikini competition.”

Brienne wasn’t happy about that either. It had become a point of contention between the two of them for some time. “I can barely concentrate on my work as it is, and you want me to starve so I can look good in a bikini?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t design the competition, my dear, I am just doing my part to help you win it.” “I don’t _need_ to win it.” She could hear the note of petulance in her voice—another thing she could blame on her exhaustion. This felt like a waste of time when she could be back in the _other_ hotel room with Jaime, actually helping the investigation, rather than answering twenty complex questions in twenty seconds. “I’m guaranteed a spot in the top ten which is all I need to give me the backstage access I need. The Stranger probably knows who I am anyway, if they’re aware of the investigation the way they say they are.”

He’d heard that argument from her before, of course, but this time he frowned. “Brienne, I’d never thought you the type to give in so easily.”

“I’m not giving in. I’m arguing with you!” she sputtered. “My assignment is to find The Stranger, not win a beauty pageant.”

“And I think you’ve given up on finding The Stranger,” he said. 

Her heart skipped a beat. She was probably gaping like a drowning fish. 

It was then that she realised his frown was not one of frustration or confusion, but of disappointment. “You put on a good front in front of the director, I’ll grant you that, and you are doing your very best to support your friend Agent Lannister, but if the theory is true your job has become infinitely more complex and that intimidates you—”

Oh that was _ridiculous_, she was not _intimidated_. “I am not—”

“—but you’ve yet to realise your advantage!” he interrupted her, and it was such an outlandish statement she stopped talking. Varys leaned forward as though he were sharing a confidence in a room full of people, despite the two of them being the only ones in the suite.

Varys continued on. “Consider: why choose this pageant as a target? Why choose an ailing, archaic institution to target. Viewership and participation in the pageant has been plummeting for decades. The board has been pushing for changes for a while now to try and combat it; encouraging and actively pursuing a more diverse group of contestants was just the first step in their much larger game plan. Petyr Baelish and Cersei Baratheon are being replaced to smooth the way for a new generation. And then amidst all this they face a threat from one of the most insidious, anonymous dangers to public order our society has seen in years.”

“It _is_ a strange choice,” Brienne admitted. Varys leaned back and straightened in his chair.

“You and Agent Lannister made a very compelling point in the meeting that The Stranger has chosen a puzzlingly wide variety for targets, but slot the Miss Westeros competition in amongst the rest of them and it would still stick out like a peacock amongst the pigeons.”

He wasn’t wrong. Every other target had been connected to a relatively serious issue. Everyone was fairly certain the Red Wedding was in response to Edmure Tully’s deeply unpopular, hostile takeover of The Twins. The bombing of the sept of Baelor was a little more divisive; either it was about religious zealotry or secularism, no one could agree. And before he was assassinated, the rumour was that Senator Jon Arryn was planning to release an incredibly damaging interview about the President’s shady business dealings.

It was hard to think what the Miss Westeros pageant would come to represent, should The Stranger be successful in their plot.

Still. “Whether or not that’s true, I don’t see how it helps me solve this. It makes it _harder_.”

Varys smiled, looking for all the world like he was about to make the final winning move in a chess game she hadn’t even noticed they were playing.

“The Stranger may be a network, and they may be operating using the dark web, making them impossible to trace, but whether The Stranger is one or many it is still comprised of _people_, and _people_ are easy enough to understand. They collect grievances and grudges and I would wager that if a group of deeply unhappy people came together to air their outrage at the injustices of the world, they would create an echo chamber of angst and hatred that could create all sorts of chaos.”

That gave her pause. She was still much too tired for this, but his argument was compelling enough.

“So you’re saying we should keep looking for an individual connection?”

“You have a multitude of evidence at your fingertips that points to the idea that at least _one_ of them is here already at the resort. I’d wager more, considering the number of people gathered here. Possibly they’ve been working for the pageant for a while, but I’m sure you’ll find that one of them, whoever they may be, has some sort of personal connection to the competition.”

It was almost too much for her. Too much to absorb and sort within her until it made some kind of sense. She could see the logic of Varys’s argument, and some part of her, perhaps it was the ‘gut’ some of the older agents liked to attribute all their best ideas to, felt that he was onto something. But she couldn’t help but think she was still missing some important part of the puzzle.

Later, she wouldn’t be able to figure out whether it was her ‘gut’, her bone-deep exhaustion or just plain old insanity that made her ask what she did next. “Why did you quit the pageant?”

She was looking straight at Varys when she asked, and it meant she could see the way his pupils dilated ever so slightly. He hadn’t expected that.

“I didn’t quit,” he said smoothly. “I chose to take a sabbatical from the competition for a few years.”

To his credit he didn’t look away. He didn’t look ashamed of his cageyness.

Brienne pressed, “But why? You say it is likely someone with a grudge against the pageant, or someone in it. Help me understand! You were one of the most successful pageant coaches in the history of this competition and you shocked everyone when you didn’t take on another client. You don’t need to be a KBI agent to see there is a story there.”

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Silence grew between them, just long enough for it to become heavy and awkward. But all her practice sitting tall and maintaining eye contact had started to sink in; she did not retract her question, as she might once have done. She wanted her answer.

Eventually he did. 

“You’re right, there is a story there,” he said, as calm as still water. Then he retrieved the question cards from his pocket and continued, “but now is not the time to tell it. I promise you, however, that I would never do anything to hurt a single hair on any of those girls’ heads, nor anyone who works at this competition, no matter how despicable they may be.”

He returned his attention to his cards, flicked between them and selected the next question. There was a determination in his features she hadn’t seen before, an air of resistance that told her she wouldn’t be getting any more of an explanation from him just yet.

It didn’t matter.

There were other ways to get the answers she wanted. And she would get her answer.


	15. Chapter 14 - The Suit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne braves the bikini competition to further the investigation

As she’d expected, Varys refused to be drawn into any further discussion of his past history with the pageant. Any time Brienne attempted to direct the conversation that way, he smoothly turned it back to the interview practice at hand. Eventually she gave up and focussed on the questions he asked and the advice he gave. She left the hotel room a few hours later with some quick-response strategies under her belt, some caffeine pills in her system and burning questions about Varys’s past that she wanted answers to.

But there wasn’t time enough for her to look into it herself. She was escorted from the room by Pia who took her to the open air arena where both the bikini competition and the interview segment would be held. It was still early, around midday, so the audience hadn’t arrived yet, but that didn’t mean it was empty. Quite the opposite. Teams of security personnel combed every inch of the seating. Stage managers and their legions of assistants were running back and forth between the stage, the lighting rigs, the sound booth and gods knew where else as they prepped the arena.

Brienne was only able to give this all a cursory glance, as Pia took her backstage. This time ‘backstage’ was a giant tent set up well behind the stage. Inside there were partitions set up to parse out a space for each contestant. Perhaps it was a decent enough size for someone as petite as Margaery, but for Brienne, as tall as she was, the partitions did little to hide her from the view of others, especially when Satin handed her the tallest pair of heels she’d been made to wear so far.

“Do you want me to be the first woman to walk on the moon, too?” she asked, holding the stiletto heels hooked between her fingers. “I’ll knock my head on the lighting rig in these.”

Satin pointedly looked at his own feet, encased in six-inch tall platform boots, then rolled his eyes with such deliberate enthusiasm that Brienne worried he’d hurt his optic nerve.

Then he handed her a small garment bag and shooed her into the curtained change room. At least in there there was no one watching her. So she was free to feel the full extent of her dread when she pulled the _very small_ swimsuit from the bag. To call it a swimsuit was generous. She'd been on her school's swim team all the way through high school and knew for a fact that if she were to dive into the pool and swim a lap wearing it, she'd emerge from the pool 40 seconds later in her birthday suit instead. Flimsy didn't even begin to describe it.

But there was no use in fighting it. This was a battle she'd lose. So she reluctantly slipped off her comfortable gym clothes and her underwear and pulled the scraps of white lycra on. Perhaps if she didn't look in the mirror she could pretend she was wearing her usual one piece, or perhaps even the suit she wore to work on a daily basis—outfits she was used to wearing. Practical clothes. Demure clothes. Clothes that actually left a little bit of her body to the imagination—even if no one really wanted to imagine what she looked like underneath them.

“Come on, honey,” Satin called. “No use stalling. We’ve already seen your heart tree. I was the one who pruned your godswood after all.”

She choked on her tongue, and burned red all over. And in a swimsuit as revealing as this everyone would finally be able to see just how far her blush extended. At least the spray tan obscured some of it.

It wasn’t worth delaying any longer. She pulled the curtain back and would have stepped out, but Satin was standing right at the opening, and he crowded her back inside, pulling the curtain shut behind them both.

“What—”

“We have just a few little adjustments to make,” he said, and held up a little pink case that declared itself to be ‘booby tape’. “We can do it out where everyone can see or we can do it just with you and me in here.”

“You and me,” she said quickly. As if there was really a choice.

Satin was looking directly at her breasts as he spoke, though it was with a professional, critical eye rather than a leer. He hummed in thought. Then he reached out to adjust the straps that wrapped around her neck, but paused inches above the fabric and asked, “May I?”

Brienne nodded, and he pinched at the fabric at her neck, pulling everything up an inch or two. Then, much to her surprise, he slipped his hand inside the cup of the bikini to grasp her breast—gently at least—to reposition it the way he wanted. Then he did the same to the other side, before he looked back up at her face and said, “I’ll need you to hold the straps up. I need both hands for this next bit.”

If her face was burning before, it was surely molten by now. The last man to touch her there… Well it had been a long time, and had been about as personal and half as gentle. She reached back and held the straps the way Satin wanted, then looked up at the canvas ceiling of the tent and tried to think of anything else other than the sensation of him applying the double-sided tape.

Then it came to her. “How long have you been working with Varys?”

“Three years now, I think?” he said, as he peeled the back off another strip and positioned it where he wanted it. “No. Four. I came on as his stylist for Miss Starfall. Ashara. She was a sweet girl. Troubled though.”

“You must like working with him then,” she said. “Surely work for these pageants is seasonal at best.”

“He looks out for his people.” Satin smiled as he said it. It was a fond smile, a genuine one. 

“His little birds?”

Satin laughed. “Yes. His little birds. That’s us.” He leaned back to survey the structural work he’d performed on her left side, which he seemed happy with—it was considerably perkier than it had been, and far more secure—so he turned his attention to her right, pulling yet more tape from his pocket. She dreaded having to remove it all later. “He helped me buy a chair at a salon up in Wintertown and in return I make sure I’m available during pageant season for him if he needs me.”

“What were you doing this year? Varys was taking a season off, right? We didn’t pull you from a holiday or something, did we?” She hoped the joking tone she used seemed genuine. She'd never been the best conversationalist, and it was even more challenging to make it seem natural while she steered it towards the topic she _really_ wanted to discuss.

“I was going to visit The Wall with my boyfriend, but I’ll join him once the competition is over.” His response seemed a little rehearsed to her ears, though he wasn’t able to entirely hide his disappointment.

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh don’t be, honey!” He looked up at her and smiled. “I don’t mind, really. I’m helping a good cause, and Varys wouldn’t have signed up to help you if he didn’t think it was important. This isn’t the first time he’s said ‘jump’ and I’ve said ‘how high, ser?’!”

She smiled back at him. “You’re loyal. That’s a rare quality in this industry, it seems.”

“Yeah, well Varys is one of the good guys. But he’s been doing it a long time, and there is a lot of pressure on someone like him, with his success rate to, you know, get results. And after Elia last year he needed a break, and I think he made the right choice! It’s all about self-care, honey, and he made a decision that was best for him and I was gonna support that.”

So it was something to do with his previous contestant. She had read something about the situation before they’d hired him, something about a shocking upset, an unprecedented disqualification. She just needed a little more information. 

She was about to ask when he stuck down the last bit of tape and indicated that she could let go of the straps at her neck. Amazingly when she did her breasts stayed where they were, somehow defying gravity. And they looked bigger? They would never be _big_—she was not blessed in that department—but while she’d been distracted trying to eke information out of Satin, Satin had been performing some kind of tailoring witchcraft with well-placed double-sided tape.

Satin whistled appreciatively. “Girl, I swear you’ve got me on the turn!”

“Oh stop it!” she said, giving him a very gentle slap on the shoulder. An hour ago she wouldn’t have thought of doing something so familiar with him. But then an hour ago he hadn’t spent a good ten minutes fondling her breasts. Satin took it in his stride and laughed, stepping back through the curtain, which he held open for her as well. 

She took a deep breath in before she stepped out of the changing room, gathering her nerves. But when she emerged it wasn’t so bad. The partitions did a fairly good job of making it seem like the area wasn’t bustling with people. And Satin had found a robe for her to wear which he was holding out for her to slip her arms into. “Thank you,” she said, tying the robe shut herself.

After that things were a little bit more routine. Satin sat her in front of the vanity and began to pull and tug on her hair, twisting small sections into comically large curlers. As he worked he ran through their schedule for the rest of the day. After the bikini competition she would come straight back here to change and get ready for the interview. They only had a short window to work with then, so Satin had had to be creative in his ‘hair story’ for her for the day.

But as much as she tried she couldn’t find a way to bring the conversation back around to whatever it was that had happened with Elia. 

And even if she had found a way, any further interrogation of Satin became impossible, because people kept dropping by her booth. At first it was just an assistant, delivering an updated run sheet, but he stayed behind to catch up with Satin a little, or perhaps to flirt—Brienne couldn’t say for sure which it was, even knowing that Satin had a boyfriend.

Then Miss Pyke’s stylist dropped by, asking if she could borrow Satin’s hair straightener, since hers seemed to have fried itself. After that Margaery stopped by. Like Brienne, she was already dressed in her bikini and was wearing a robe over the top, though she hadn’t tied hers closed. If nothing else Brienne envied her natural boldness. It would take years of following Varys’s advice before she would be comfortable lounging about in a bikini when there were so many people around. Margaery made it look easy.

“You came in late again!” Margaery said gleefully, sitting on the edge of the vanity. She made a show of inspecting her nails as she waited for Brienne to explain herself. When Brienne didn’t immediately respond with an explanation or an excuse, she turned her flirtatious gaze on Satin instead. “Satin, did you know that Brienne has been spending time at night with Varys’s _other_ lovely assistant?”

He caught Brienne’s eyes in the mirror and raised his eyebrow, “Oh?” he said, though his tone contained a million questions. 

Brienne rolled her eyes. “It’s just Jaime,” she said pointedly, more to Satin than to Margaery. “Margaery thinks he’s interested in me, but I’ve told her I’m not his type.” She hoped that that would be enough for Satin to pick up her cue.

“Oh. Yes. _Jaime_.” He was not a very good improviser. He smirked at her, then coughed and turned to Margaery. “No. He’s not interested in our girl Brie. He, er.... he has a girlfriend.”

Brienne buried her face in her hands, but she still heard Margaery’s victorious laugh. She probably would’ve heard it through six inches of lead. There was no way she would be able to avoid a conversation about this later. Hopefully the investigation would keep her away from their room long enough that Margaery would be sound asleep again, but Brienne doubted she’d get so lucky.

Margaery left with the hair spray she’d ostensibly come for, but before Brienne could fill Satin in on the cover-story he’d inadvertently blown, Sansa stopped by to return the phone charger she’d borrowed from Brienne. “Thank you so much, Brie!” she said, looking like a beautiful ingenue from one those old films her father had always loved watching on weekend afternoons. Except obviously she was in colour.

“Oh, you didn’t need to give it back!” Brienne said. “But I’m happy I could help. Were you able to call your sister?”

“Yes!” Sansa nodded and smiled, but then it faltered when she said, “I really needed to talk to her.”

Brienne couldn’t help but be concerned. Satin saw it too. “Are you all right?” he asked, reaching a hand out to rub the younger girl’s arm. “Is the stress getting to you? It’s normal, honey!” Brienne was grateful he was there. She’d never been good at being the comforting one. She never knew what to say.

“Oh no, nothing like that!” she said, waving her hand, her neck turning pink. “I just saw my ex-boyfriend in the crowd the other night. It was a bit of a shock! I didn’t realise he’d be here.”

“Ugh, a bad penny ex?” Satin asked sympathetically, but both Sansa and Brienne must have looked confused. “You know. They always show up?”

“It wasn’t… It didn’t end well,” she confessed, and somehow managed to look even younger. The worst part about it was that, unlike Margaery, it didn’t seem to be an act. She just _was_ young. 

“Could you ask security to remove him?” Brienne suggested, but Sansa shook her head.

“He kind of… _is_ security. He works for one of the companies they contract out to work at functions like this. It’s just bad luck he’s here instead of at, I don’t know, the global warming summit at White Harbour.” She sighed and ran her hands across the tops of her thighs. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine. I doubt he’ll come and talk to me or anything. He’ll be too busy. I’m getting worked up over nothing, I’m sure.”

“You can come hang around me if you like,” Brienne offered, wanting to do something. “Most men find me intimidating, so feel free to use me to your advantage.”

Satin nodded, “Or me, honey. I’ll scare him right off for you. Men are the worst.”

That at least made Sansa laugh a little. “You sound just like my sister!” she said, then stood. “I’ve got to get back. Good luck for the next segment! Not that you’ll need it, of course. No one will forget your legs, they’re so long!”

She disappeared back to her own booth as quickly as she’d appeared. “She’s right you know,” Satin said, fetching something from his bag. “You do have unforgettable legs.”

Brienne almost rolled her eyes, until she saw what it was he’d pulled from his bag. The baby oil.

“No, Satin,” she said flatly.

“_Yes_, Satin!”

It was going to be another long night.

* * *

The actual competition itself wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. It was still agonisingly embarrassing, of course—she would never be comfortable standing in front of any group of people in that little clothing—but it felt a little bit better when she wasn’t the only one out there wearing so little. And instead of feeling envious of the petite curves and proportionate bodies around her, she chose instead to focus on the absurdity of the competition itself. Fifty young women took the stage, all wearing the same swimsuit, to be judged for their _athleticism_ by two men who’d likely had more heart attacks under their belts than completed marathons. Meanwhile Miss Pyke had literally swum the length of Ironman’s Bay _in winter_ and Miss Wall was a champion free climber with at least one world-record under her belt.

Surely there were better ways to judge their athleticism than to view their baby-oil slicked bodies as they walked in formation about a stage. It was a bit of a running joke amongst the contestants backstage.

“I can do a Lyseni double front roundoff with a twist. I should do that for the judges to _show my athleticism_,” said Miss Dorne as she tugged the bottom of her bikini down a little further. Satin had sprayed Brienne’s backside with hairspray to prevent that particular wardrobe malfunction from plaguing her throughout the night. Apparently Miss Dorne’s stylist didn’t know that hack.

“You do _that_ in your bikini and you’ll be showing them more than your gynecologist gets to see,” Ygritte muttered.

Yara snorted at the joke, then covered it when Arianne shot her a particularly withering glare. She took her gymnastics very seriously. Yara turned to Brienne. “What about you, Brie? You look like you could bench press an aurochs in your sleep.”

She _could_ bench press a lot, though it had been a while since she’d been to the gym. She hadn’t had the time. “I compete in triathlons,” she said honestly. It was another thing she hadn’t had time for lately, but she’d been competing in them since she was in high school. 

Myranda reached out and grabbed Brienne’s thigh. “No surprises there. These legs are made for _power_.”

The only thing that left a lingering feeling of discomfort—other than Myranda’s surprisingly firm grip—was Varys’s conspicuous absence. Satin hadn’t left her in the lurch, of course, having done everything he could and more to prepare her for the segment, up to and including giving her a crash course in how to walk in those ridiculous stiletto heels, but still. This was the first part of the competition she had had to brave without Varys’s strangely calming presence, and she was fairly sure she only had herself to blame for it.

So when it came time to take the stage and parade herself in front of the judges in the name of ‘athleticism’, she just… did it. She walked to her marks, struck the poses that Satin walked her through, and even allowed the judges and the audience the barest of smiles as she did it all, all the while wondering whether that man in the front row who smiled back up at her was one of The Stranger. Or perhaps it was the judge. Or the assistant who handed her back her robe when she finally walked off the stage.

It could be anyone and she had no way of knowing who it could possibly be. All she could do was her job and hope that the other agents were more successful than she was.

Once the stage managers cleared her to leave and return backstage, she found Satin back at her booth. He handed her a towel, a plastic hair net and a bottle of bodywash, and directed her to the _very_ glamorous demountable shower-block the pageant had set up behind the venue.

By the grace of the gods there wasn’t a line just yet, so she was able to head straight in and rid herself of the slimy baby oil without having to wait around for the rest of the contestants to go first. 

It was on her way back that she saw Hyle. He was hovering in the shadows just outside the main tent, but when he saw her he stepped out to intercept her, grabbing her gently by the elbow. “We need to talk,” was all he said.

She let herself be dragged, heart suddenly pounding. “What’s wrong?”

He pulled her to a spot between the backstage tent and one of the technical pavilions that had been set up. She could see immediately why; it was one of the few places in this chaotic tent city that _wasn’t_ highly visible, and even then the canvas of the tent billowed in odd ways to make it difficult to see out, much less in. If anyone had seen a man dressed in black and wearing a headset drag her back here they weren’t likely to see anything other than that. 

“Have we made a break?” she asked, suddenly feeling quite anxious.

He shook his head and her stomach dropped, though the feeling of anxiety lingered. Why would he be here if he didn’t have something substantial, something _significant_ to share?

“Then why are you here?” It came out sounding more harsh than she’d expected.

Hyle, to his credit, didn’t flinch at her tone. Instead he straightened his spine, looked her in the eye, and said the last thing she’d ever expected to hear from a man who’d spent years of his life, from their shared time at the academy to their years together on the force, making her life miserable.

“I’m sorry.”

She almost stepped back in surprise.

He continued on, “I’ve treated you badly for years. I’ve said things I shouldn’t have said, done things I should never have done—at the academy and while we’ve been working major crimes together—and you never did anything to me to deserve it. Even if you had, it wouldn’t have made what I did to you right. I don’t expect you to forgive me, and I should have apologised sooner, but hopefully now is better than never.”

It took her a little while to understand that it was sincere. His cheeks were a little rosy with embarrassment and more than a little anxiety of his own, but still he stood firm and weathered her gaze as she looked him up and down, searching for any hint of dissembling, but she came up with nothing.

“Why now?” she asked eventually, acutely aware of how underdressed she was for the occasion. But then again, the fact that he hadn’t made a single disparaging comment about the robe _or _the bikini competition was surprising enough. “It’s not because I pinned you to the wall the other night, is it?”

He flushed a deep red then, and adjusted his stance in the kind of fidgety way children did when facing questions they didn’t want to answer, but after a second or two he seemed to catch himself in the act and he forcibly stilled. Then he shook his head. “No, er, not that,” he said, and looked like he was about to add something, before he changed his mind and continued on, “Look, the why doesn’t matter. I was a dick to you for no reason because I thought it would be funny. But you never stopped being professional—even now, you’re here doing a job I know you hate because you think it’ll help save people’s lives, and you weren’t afraid to stand up to Selmy this morning. I respect that and… and I wanted to tell you I have your back.”

She didn’t really know what to say to that. Probably she should accept his apology, right? That was what you did when someone apologised to you. But she was so unprepared for it, and frankly she wasn’t sure if she _wanted_ to accept it. But the way he’d said _I have your back_ was so deliberately final she had to think of a way to respond.

“I appreciate it,” she said finally, hating how formal her voice sounded, but she couldn’t help it. It was better than silence.

Hyle offered a small smile, so unlike every other smile she’d seen on his face before. Open and vulnerable; it made his face look younger. Then he held out his hand to shake. A peace offering, if she’d ever seen one.

Brienne felt like she was reeling from a blow, but she took it. It was a firm handshake; she couldn’t feel a hint of reluctance or resentment in his palm. Instead he smiled a little brighter, and the line of tension slid from his shoulders like he had been relieved of some invisible burden.

“I know one apology isn’t going to be enough,” he said, and let her hand go, “but it’s where I needed to start.”

She nodded stiffly, still not sure what else to do. Except that if she kept Satin waiting too much longer and he wouldn’t let her hear the end of it. The Stranger be damned.

“And if you need my help on anything, investigation or otherwise… Let me know. I owe you more than one.”

“I will,” she said, then glanced over her shoulder back through the gap between the tents. “I need to get back soon, or Satin'll have my head.”

Hyle held his hands up and took a quick step backwards as though she’d demanded he back out of her physical space. He bumped into the canvas of the tent in his enthusiasm and had to course correct by stumbling to the side. “Oh, of course,” he said. “You have your job to do, I have mine. Go, go. Knock it out of the park.”

Brienne hurried back towards the open area before he could do something else as mystifying as apologise, like declare his secret undying love for her or something. Then she paused, struck by a thought.

She turned. “Actually I do have something you could do for me.”

“Whatever you need, I’m your man.”

“You’ll need to keep it a secret for a little while. And it might be nothing, I don’t know… It’s just a feeling I have, I might be—”

He put a hand out to stop her from saying anything further. “I _said_ whatever you need, Brienne.”

She took a deep breath. “I need you to look into Varys for me. Find out what happened when he was working for an old contestant, Elia someone.”

Hyle frowned. “Varys? Really?”

Brienne felt her stomach twist in knots, but she nodded. “There is something he’s not telling us and I need to know what it is. But if it’s nothing I don’t want to drag his name into the investigation when he’s been so helpful.”

“Okay,” he said, before she could explain herself further. “I’ll look into him and hopefully get you something by the end of the day. Anyone else?”

Brienne racked her memory. Then, “Sansa Stark.”

She could see Hyle’s mind whirring as he tried to put a face to the name. “You mean Miss Winterfell?” She understood his scepticism. “Surely she’s not a threat.”

“No. Well I don’t think so. But she has an ex-boyfriend who’s giving her some trouble.”

That made his eyes sparkle with something she hadn’t seen since their early days at the academy, back before everything. “You want me to rough him up?” he joked.

“And deny myself the pleasure?” she shot back, though of course she had no intention of doing anything of the sort. But knowing a bit more about him, whoever he might be, would give her a bit of peace of mind.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Hyle said, and against all reason she felt she’d made the right choice. 

Brienne left him properly this time, leaving him behind between the tents so that she could find Satin and get ready for the interview segment of the night. She was still beyond exhausted, still uncertain about every decision that she was making, but the conversation with Hyle left her feeling an absurd kind of confidence that she didn’t take lightly. She had another ally in her corner, another person she could trust, at least tentatively. At least with the investigation. 

If she could get Hyle on her side, apologising to her after years and years of torment… Maybe other impossible things could happen. Maybe she’d do all right during the interview. Maybe she would find The Stranger against all the odds.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all.


	16. Chapter 15 - The Interview

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your understanding about the gap between chapters. Things are getting more complicated for me to write, which means it's going a little slower, and then when you add in the cocktail of The World At Large at the moment... That being said, I'm trying to dedicate a little time every day to working on this and hopefully it won't be such a long time between drinks.
> 
> Thank you, as well, to the usual group of wonderful people who help me with this. I adore you all.

Brienne returned from her shower and her conversation with Hyle to find that Varys had finally appeared. He was in one of his impeccable double-breasted grey suits, this time styled with a bright pink cravat tied tightly at his neck. On anyone else it would’ve looked ridiculous, but he made it look august.

“Nice of you to join us,” he said coolly, answering the question of just how upset he still was about her forceful line of questioning earlier that morning. She didn’t blame him—if anything his attitude was a bit of a comfort. If he’d been anything other than a little defensive it would have made her even more suspicious. A guilty person would try to downplay whatever it was that had upset him so much this morning, possibly try to direct her attention elsewhere. 

No. Whatever it was she’d caught on to was a sensitive topic, for sure, but she was less and less certain it was a sign that he was one of The Stranger.

“I got waylaid on my way back from the showers,” she said, offering up no further explanation. 

And Varys didn't press her for further information. Instead he waved dismissively at the new garment bag hanging on the clothes rack, turned to Satin and began talking about the makeup look he wanted for the interview. Brienne placed the toiletries bag she'd been carrying down on Satin's workstation, grabbed the garment bag from the rack and retreated into the changing room to change.

Once the curtains were securely closed she opened the garment bag to see whether or not Varys’s dissatisfaction extended to more wardrobe torture. But he was no Ron or Mark who would stoop to petty revenge like that. If nothing else she was certain that Varys _was_ a professional, and that was only reinforced when she pulled out the navy jumpsuit from the other day. The one that Jaime had helped her zip up. Varys had sent it away for a few minor alterations—perhaps he’d been collecting it from his seamstress when she had been enduring the indignity of the bikini competition.

If it had fit well when she had tried it on the other day, it was practically a second skin today. Brienne was astonished that a few simple adjustments could have such an impact. There wasn’t a mirror in here, but she knew, _she knew_ that she would look amazing. She’d never felt that about an item of clothing before. She didn’t think it was possible.

The zipper was still a little too awkward for her to do up herself, and it was impossible not to think of Jaime’s hands pulling the sides of the fabric together, the pad of a finger gently pressing against the back of her neck as he drew the zip closed. The memory left her feeling warm, low in her belly. How had that touch seemed more personal than Satin cupping her breasts?

_You know why_.

But she couldn’t think of that now. Or ever. She held the bodice up with one arm, drew back the curtain with the other and stepped out. Satin and Varys were both still there. No one else. Everyone else was off doing their jobs like they were supposed to. Both men turned when she emerged, and Satin quickly shuffled behind her to help her with the errant zip, leaving her to stare at Varys.

He had an impassive look on his face. Whatever it was he was thinking as he looked her up and down she couldn’t say, but he seemed determined to maintain his cool demeanour. It seemed, though, that even he, in his dour mood, couldn’t find fault with the alterations. He nodded his approval before waving Satin forth so that he could work his magic.

Satin had her sit in the low chair before the mirror to work on her hair. For five or so minutes, any chance of initiating a conversation with Varys was fruitless while the stylist directed his hairdryer at her hair. Not that it mattered. Soon after Satin began his work, Varys pulled his phone from a pocket in his trousers and stepped away, presumably somewhere quieter, to answer the call. It gave her time to think. If there was anything to find on him, she needed to trust that Hyle would find it. She was almost positive that Varys was hiding something, though she was equally sure that whatever it was, it wasn’t that he was part of an international terrorist conspiracy. 

Still. It niggled.

But then there was the part of her, however small, that remained uncertain. That doubted. What if he _wasn’t_ hiding anything? What if she had dragged him through the mud for no reason other than another lapse in judgement? She’d been wrong before, and she’d missed important clues with catastrophic consequences—it was her fault that Jaime had lost his finger, and if he hadn’t stepped between her and the bullet, then she’d likely be dead too.

What if she was wrong and she’d just hurt the budding friendship that seemed to have formed between the both of them? Varys had been trying to help her before she started interrogating him. He’d helped her in so many ways, and she returned the favour with doubt and questions that the man clearly found uncomfortable.

Satin shut the hairdryer off and set it down on the vanity counter, then pulled a spray bottle from what could only be described as a beauty utility belt around his waist, and began to mist whatever was in it around her head. He was massaging the product into her hair, styling it into deliberate waves about her head when Varys returned. 

“That was Jaime,” he said, and it was a little strange to hear Varys call him by that name. She had gotten used to hearing him call Jaime _Agent Lannister_. But then again, they were in an open space where anyone passing by their little section of the tent could hear what they were saying. He was simply being discreet. “He wished to remind you to wear the good luck charms he provided you with the other day.”

Brienne nodded. The competition rules had restricted her from wearing any jewellery during the bikini segment, which included the pin affixed to her _Miss Storm’s End_ sash, but there were no such restrictions during the interview. She’d been wearing her earpiece most of the morning, except for the half hour or so when she’d showered and been waylaid by Hyle on the way back, though the other agents had been rather quiet. It hadn’t troubled her much at the time. Everyone was busy now that Selmy was on site, breathing down their necks; it made sense that they wouldn’t be bothering her so much.

But now the radio silence troubled her a little and she couldn’t help but feel some trepidation and guilt: what if something had happened? The Stranger knew the KBI was investigating them. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility to imagine they would redirect whatever attack they had planned to focus on on the authorities instead. Perhaps that was the reason the letter was so easily decoded in the first place: to tempt the KBI with a juicy collar, only to have the hunted rain down chaos on the hunters. It was exactly the type of anti-authoritative action they’d come to expect from The Stranger.

The thought chilled her, made the jumpsuit seem a little tighter than it had even a minute ago. She leaned forward and retrieved the toiletries bag from where it had been buried by Satin’s various tonics and potions. The earpiece was still tucked safely inside, in a small water-proof pouch sewed into the lining. She clicked it on before she tucked it back into her ear, and after a little fuzz of transmission static, the sound on the other end cleared up. Then, “Brienne?” Pod said in her ear. “Are you there?”

“I’m here,” she said, pushing down the stray tendril of disappointment at hearing the younger agent’s voice. Of course he was the one on the other end of the line. Everyone else was too busy. “Sorry I was MIA for a bit.”

“We were worried until Hyle came back and said he’d seen you,” Pod said, oddly softly, as though he was trying to speak without the others in his room hearing what he was saying.

It struck Brienne as a little strange, but she figured it was probably because Selmy was there and Pod didn’t want to make it look like she was being anything less than professional. Not that what she _had_ done had been inappropriate—she’d only been without the ear piece for half an hour, maybe 45 minutes—but then again she’d always felt that she needed to hold herself to a higher standard of professionalism than the rest of the people she worked with. Most of the time it had felt like she’d been working twice as hard to get half as far. 

Now, as Satin began to dab some kind of antiseptic-smelling cream beneath her eyes, it was hard to imagine any of the men back in the hotel room enduring anything like this. She flinched away from the unexpected smell. “What _is_ that?” she asked, looking at the tube in his hand. It looked pharmaceutical, not cosmetic.

“Hemorrhoid cream,” Satin said, popping the cap back on.

She reeled back even further. “Why?”

“Reduces puffiness,” he said, smoothly, already pulling his next bottle of snake oil from his make-up bag. “You know what also reduces puffiness? Sleep.”

Brienne wasn’t above rolling her eyes. Satin kissed the air in her direction, and then recommenced his transformation. She returned her attention to Pod.

“Anything I need to know? Are we any further in the case?”

“About the same. We’ve linked up with cyber crimes and they’re helping us with the dark web theory, but it’s a bit too early yet to have anything concrete.”

“It’s a good theory,” she said, as Satin nudged her face upwards so he could dust something on her neck. “I’m sure it will pan out, as long as you keep working at it.”

Persistence was key with any kind of police work, even if they were working under time-pressure like they were here at the pageant. All they could hope was that they didn’t miss anything while they worked, and trust in their colleagues. Maybe even trust in their gut, their instinct.

“I will. And I’ll let you know the moment we find anything,” Pod promised. “I’ll let you get back to your preparation.”

“What’s there to prepare for?” she joked. “I want world peace more than any of these girls.”

Pod chuckled a little, before he said goodbye and turned off his microphone. The silence he left behind only lasted for a moment before she remembered where she was: backstage, surrounded by hundreds of people. Satin had been applying her makeup the entire time, and it was a sign of how absurd everything was that she’d almost forgotten he was there.

“The investigation is running smoothly, I take it?” Varys asked from where he stood behind her. 

She had definitely forgotten _he_ was there, and she struggled against her suddenly dry mouth as she replied, “As smoothly as we can expect.”

“Excellent to hear,” Varys said, then pulled the question cards from his breast pocket and shuffled them in his hands. 

“Surely it’s too late to practise this now,” she said, imploringly. He was relentless, and regardless of her guilt over questioning his past history in the pageant, she had appreciated the scant hours she’d had to herself without him badgering her.

“Our preparation was cut short earlier,” he said, and looked down his nose at her as he recited, “Proper preparation prevents poor performance.”

She blinked. It was something her father often said—an old military man, he had often repeated the adages he had learned in basic training as parental advice. 

“Are you ex-military?” she asked, unable to keep the incredulity from her tone. Varys was enigmatic, to be sure, but she _never_ would have guessed that about him.

His mouth twisted into something that could’ve been a smile or a frown—she honestly couldn’t tell which—but he didn’t answer. Instead, he neatly squared the stack of cards he held in his hands and skimmed his eyes over the question there. They _did_ light up as he read, there was no mistaking that, especially when he turned his knowing, sardonic gaze to her.

He began to read, voice so calm it was practically mocking her without a single lick of misplaced inflection, “Miss Storm’s End, Westeros is experiencing a high rate of housing insecurity and homelessness. What would you do to combat the issue?”

It was the same question he’d asked her that morning. The one that had stumped her. 

This time, he made _sure_ she answered.

* * *

An hour or so later Brienne was standing backstage for the second time that day, watching the other contestants be ‘interviewed’ by Cersei Baratheon and Petyr Baelish in order to prove their worldliness was worthy of being the next Miss Westeros. She was still nervous—she wasn’t sure she’d ever be comfortable getting up on stage in front of thousands of people and television cameras, but at least she was getting used to it. Or perhaps she was just getting better at ignoring her nerves.

It also helped to see a few of the other contestants stumble over easy questions. Miss Eyrie’s nonsensical answer to a frankly ridiculous question about the impacts of income inequality on educational outcomes across Westeros’s seven kingdoms was cringeworthy, but when delivered with a smile seemed to please the crowd. Or perhaps it was her very low-cut dress. 

Margaery didn’t seem intimidated by the process at all. She faced questions about abortion rights and foreign policy with a kind of unruffled confidence that Brienne envied, though it was hard to say that she _stood_ for anything when she delivered answers like: “It’s important that, as a modern Westerosi society, we maintain open and frank lines of communication with Essos to ensure we can combat the issue of climate change globally, without disenfranchising those who live in developing parts of the world. A maester’s chain is only as strong as its weakest link, and we need to forge strength globally to guarantee a happy future for all.”

Even Sansa, who was standing beside Brienne while they watched the live feed, cocked her head like a confused puppy as she processed the answer.

But like every other segment of this damned competition, Brienne’s turn came sooner than she thought, and before long Varys had reappeared at her shoulder, pushing her gently towards the wings of the stage where she would await her cue. 

“Remember, if in doubt, keep your response as short as possible. Better to finish quickly than have the clock run you out and leave an idea half-expressed. Use the question to begin your answer if you need to stall for time, and speak clearly to the audience, not to Cersei or Littlefinger,” Varys said, as he gently adjusted the neckline of her jumpsuit, or a curl of hair across her ear. These last-minute tweaks were becoming routine, too. Brienne suspected they were a sign of his nerves, even if, in every other way, he seemed completely unflappable.

“I’ll be fine,” she reassured him.

“I’m sure you will, my dear, but forgive me for wanting you to do better than _fine_, when I firmly believe you are capable of more.”

He said it with such smooth certainty, it almost took the breath right from her lungs. She didn’t know what to do with this kind of faith, this kind of trust. It almost hurt to hear such words when she had asked Hyle to probe into his history only hours earlier. 

“I’m sorry I pushed you, earlier,” she said, catching his brown eyes with hers.

He dismissed her with yet another wave. “You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t.”

“It’s hard to remember who to trust at the moment,” she explained, his dismissal not assuaging the roiling feeling of guilt and nerves in her stomach.

“I understand, I do.” He smiled, then, and stepped back to admire her. The smile quirked into something a little more cheeky, “For what it’s worth, I promise you I am not now, nor have I ever been, The Stranger. I meant it when I said that I would never do anything to knowingly hurt anyone in this competition, even if I thought they deserved it.”

She believed that much, at least. “Will you tell me why, then?”

“I will,” he promised, then one of the many stage assistants marched up to Brienne.

“Miss Storm’s End, you’re up next.”

“—But not now.” He stepped back to allow the stage assistant to hand her a bedazzled microphone. It was heavier than she expected, and the weight of it in her hand seemed to wake the butterflies in her stomach. Varys patted her lightly on the shoulder. “Go knock ‘em dead. We’ll talk about it later. I promise.”

On stage, Petyr Baelish farewelled the previous contestant in his usual sickly smooth way, “A round of applause for the youthful contestant from Bear Island!”

The audience obediently clapped Lyanna Mormont from the stage, and when they’d settled enough, Cersei Baratheon said, “Next we have the towering contestant from the stormlands, Brie Cockshaw—Miss Storm’s End.”

Only Brienne would likely be the one to hear the insult in the introduction, but as far as they went, this one was a particularly weak one. She softened her face and walked with confidence as quickly as she could in the heels Satin had given her, to her mark on centre stage, beside where Cersei and Littlefinger stood together. They looked ready to devour her alive. Brienne understood that much, at least. She knew too much about the both of them—knowledge was power—and they didn’t like it. As she walked, she wondered what Cersei had done with her letter from The Stranger she’d spied the night before, whether she knew what she’d had in her possession, or not. If she did know, whether she’d destroyed it already. Whether she was in direct communication with The Stranger. Whether _she_ was part of The Stranger, after all. It seemed as likely as anything else. 

And Littlefinger. Fired from the competition. Already under investigation. It was that and that alone that had Brienne doubting his involvement in the plot. 

Baelish watched her as she crossed the stage with the same bland smile on his face like always, though his eyes remained beady and cold. He looked stylish as usual, in the same kind of sharp suit he had worn at every event so far, the fabric always in some varied shade of blue-grey. Cersei, too, was only smiling with her mouth, and was dressed in her usual uniform of a blood-red gown, this one bedecked from low-cut neckline to toe in glittering red jewels. 

Perhaps she might have been intimidated by the two of them, once upon a time, or even just a week ago. But now, they were not so scary or frightening as that. It was something about the way that both hosts had to tilt their heads up to look Brienne in the eye. Cersei’s smile cracked a little, revealing the contempt beneath. 

Despite Varys’s advice, she looked at them for a moment longer than she should have—_I am watching you both. I know who you are_—before she turned her attention to the cheering crowd, finally allowing herself to smile and wave.

“Welcome, Miss Storm’s End,” Cersei said, gripping her own microphone tightly enough that the knuckles of her left hand were white. In her right she held a stack of question cards.

“Wonderful to be here with you tonight, Miss Baratheon,” Brienne said, trying to make sure she smiled a little as she said it. “And you, Mr Baelish.”

Littlefinger bowed his head a little in greeting. “Now before we start the questions formally, I’d like to address a question many people have been asking since they were introduced to you days ago. You were not originally supposed to compete in this competition, were you?”

Her heart beat wildly in her chest; she felt a little light headed. Was he truly blowing her cover on national, live TV? Was he insane?

“Pardon?” she asked, glancing between him and Cersei, who had what could only be described as a smug look on her face.

Littlefinger’s smile widened enough that she could just see his teeth, his red tongue poking out like a snake tasting the air. “Viewers from all over have noticed that you were not, at first, listed in the competition’s programme and have sent through thousands of enquiries. You are not the real Miss Storm’s End, are you?”

He asked it to destabilise her, that much was clear. And it had worked. Her heart still raced, but she forced a little chuckle so that it would look like understandable nerves and not shock or outrage. “Yes. I was runner-up in that competition. But Shireen was hospitalised last week and so I was asked to fulfill my responsibilities as her understudy and take her position here at the national competition. It has been like some sort of crazy dream!” She directed her last statement to the crowd, trying her best to sound appropriately awestruck, and was rewarded with a polite round of applause. “I hope Shireen is recovering well, and if I _am_ to win, she will be the first that I thank. The _rightful_ Miss Storm’s End.”

Cersei smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Now that’s settled, Brie, let’s get down to business,” she said, and began to read from the card in her hand. “We _all_ make mistakes. Tell us about a time you made a mistake and what you did about it.”

Brienne’s mind raced, and she forced her mouth to follow along.

“I’ve made so many mistakes in my life, it is hard to pick just one,” she said to stall while she desperately reached for something, _anything_ that would be suitable to recount. A mistake. Her last mistake. Her worst mistake. _Jaime_. “I misjudged a situation at work which resulted in a good friend of mine sustaining a terrible injury. He… He does not blame me, even though he should, but I have apologised sincerely anyway. And to honour his faith in me, I’ve done my best to be more focussed and attentive, and to think more deeply rather than acting on instinct, so that I don’t make that same mistake again.”

If she did make that same mistake again, chances are she’d wind up without her job at the Bureau, but that was besides the point. She owed it to Jaime to be less impulsive and more careful. For his sake and her own. Hopefully this new approach to work would help her catch The Stranger before they could implement their nefarious plot.

Once the audience had finished their applause, Baelish said, with saccharine serenity, “Good advice for us all.” Then he held his own card up and read the next question, “If you win the title of Miss Westeros, what will you do for the next year to improve the world we live in?”

This one was a little easier to answer. Varys had asked her a similar question during their preparation, and she called on the answer they’d whittled down between them. “Mr Baelish, the title of Miss Westeros has long been toothless, relegated to raising awareness rather than enacting change. If I am crowned the next Miss Westeros I would use my position to open more domestic violence shelters in areas where they are most needed, I’d continue to advocate against the beauty industry’s lack of diversity in their modelling portfolios until they are truly representative of the population, and I would personally work towards living a carbon neutral life. There will be no future for Westeros without Westeros.”

A few people at the back of the stadium cheered, waving the provincial flag of the Stormlands high above their heads. She’d never been a particularly dedicated Stormlander, but their loyalty _was_ moving.

Cersei waited for the crowd to settle with pursed lips, reminding Brienne uncannily of a displeased primary school teacher. Finally, she asked the last question: “Some people have criticised the Miss Westeros pageant, saying that it sets a poor example for young women. What would you say to the critics?”

A week ago, Brienne would not have been able to answer the question. Or rather, she likely would’ve found herself agreeing with the critics. But after the days she’d spent buried up to her eyeballs in pageantry and preparation, shoulder-to-shoulder with the other women she shared the stage with daily, her answer came easily.

“I would say that I used to be one of them. And I would’ve said that based on my assumptions of what this contest was, rather than what it has evolved into today, because if this was simply a beauty contest I know I wouldn’t be here.” She paused. Swallowed. Unable to put from her mind all the horrible things she’d heard about her appearance since practically the day she was born._ Ugly. Mannish. Unique. _But the people who had said those things were nothing to her now. Those words were nothing but wind.“Many people in my life have insulted me, have called me names, have made fun of my face or my height. But to write this off as a beauty contest ignores the achievements of hundreds of talented, passionate, hard-working young women, and our society already does enough of that. I have never been conventionally beautiful. But I don’t want to be. I want to be respected. I want to be valued. Not because of what I look like, but because of what I can do.”

If the crowd had been pleased by her earlier responses, they were ecstatic now. Their applause was like thunder, shaking the room and the stage as most of them took to their feet in their enthusiasm. Brienne almost took a step back in surprise. 

But she managed to keep her balance, even in her stiletto heels, and turned to look at the crowd. It was hard to see specific faces while several spotlights were trained on her, but she could see a few people in the front row with supportive, enthusiastic smiles on their faces. One moved her hands to cup her face and hollered a noise of support; someone out of sight whistled.

Whatever reaction she’d expected from the crowd before taking the stage, this hadn’t been it. She would’ve been happy with polite applause, muted acceptance of her place in the competition, no matter how absurd it seemed. So she didn’t know what to do with this kind of… acceptance? agreement? approval?

So she smiled. Not the polite smile she had dispatched to Cersei and Baelish earlier, which had been little more than pursed lips. This was a brighter thing; she was sure her teeth were showing—something she rarely allowed—but right now she didn’t care.

“Truer words were never spoken,” said Cersei, once she’d finished clapping perfunctorily. She, too, was smiling, though her green eyes shone acidly, glinting violently under the stage lights. Not a single genuine twitch of expression to be seen. Brienne was used to that much, but the hatred there was something new. Worse than it had been the previous night. It sent a flare of unease shooting through her belly.

Baelish made a noise of agreement, and said, “Yes. An excellent response that speaks right to the heart of this_ great_ establishment.” He, at least, managed to fake sincerity a little better than his stage partner. “Thank you very much, Miss Storm’s End, for your answers, and for your passion. Hopefully the judges will be just as pleased as we are.”

“No, thank you,” Brienne said, and waved to the cheering crowd as she exited stage right.

_“Great job, Brienne_,” Jaime’s voice echoed in her ear. It took her by surprise, but she was fairly sure she managed to hide her reaction well enough from suspicious eyes as she disappeared behind the side curtain.

“Thank you,” she said, to both him and the stage manager who came to collect her microphone.

“_I hope… You know I respect you, right?_” he said, strangely quiet. It did something funny to her tummy, like she’d knocked back a glass of champagne too quickly, only to have it fizz and bubble inside her.

“Of course I know that,” she said, more quickly than she should. 

“_I know you think I picked you because you were the only woman on the team who could do this job, but that’s not it at all, Brienne. That’s not why at all. I respect you. I value you. Even after the Dothraki restaurant thing. I don’t blame you for that… I _trust_ you.You’re—_”

“—I know. I know you trust me.” 

“_Do you?_”

Her heart thumped almost painfully, large against her lungs. Her skin freckled with goosebumps… She was scared. Why was she scared? “Of course I do. Of _course_.”

There was a pause then, though she could still hear him breathing on the other end of the line. She could hear he was preparing to say something more. It was in the sound of the air. But whatever it was he had to say, she couldn’t hear it now. She couldn’t. 

Thankfully, as if he’d heard her desperate plea, Varys rounded the corner of the stage, clearly seeking her out through the bustle of backstage.

“Varys is coming,” she said in a rush, before he could voice his next, whatever it might be. It felt like the act of a coward, and she knew she was blushing in shame.

“_All right,_” Jaime said, the disappointment clear to hear in his voice. “_We’ll talk again later_.”

She looked up just as Varys approached her. He looked, well… proud. 

“Brie, my dear, that was _outstanding_,” he said, grasping her by the upper-arms, giving them a fond squeeze. “I couldn’t have wished for better answers to those questions. Marvellous!”

Brienne laughed a little, unable to help herself. That was how her nerves seemed to want to escape her.

“Yeah, that was good, Brie.” Hyle said, stepping out from behind Varys. He’d been walking directly behind the other, bigger, man, so seeing him was quite the surprise. 

“Thanks,” she said, before realising he had a folder in his hands. Surely he wouldn’t be stupid enough to bring her information on Varys while Varys was standing right there. She tilted her head to the side, indicating they should move their conversation sideways, to a little alcove, probably designed for storage of props or sets, that would give them a little more privacy. Varys would still be close enough to hear, of course, but wouldn’t be able to _see_ what was in the folder so easily. He watched this happen with an amused expression on his face, but didn’t protest when she and Hyle retreated from him.

When they were as alone as they could be, she asked, “Is that what we were talking about before?”

He shook his head. “Only half of it.” He held the folder out to her. She took it. “The other stuff is proving a little tricker to get, but I’m working on it. Should have it tomorrow morning at the latest.”

She opened it with some trepidation, and was pleased to find that Hyle wasn’t a complete fool. Written at the top of the report was ‘Stark, Sansa’. It wasn’t particularly detailed, but then again for a few hours work, this was probably better than she deserved. A good background check took days.

“Anything catch your eye?” she asked, as she skimmed through the pages he’d collected together. Birth certificate. Passport and travel records. High school and university transcripts. An arrest record with a mug shot. Sansa looked completely different in the photo. Younger, obviously, but terrified of the situation she was in. Briene looked up at Hyle and raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Arrested at a protest for northern independence that got out of hand two years back. The boyfriend was arrested too.”

“The ex?” Brienne asked, and returned to reading the arrest report to see if it included the name.

“As far as I can tell, yeah.” Hyle said, just as she found the name. _Ramsay Bolton_.

“Did you have anything--” she began to ask, but he pointed at the folder.

“Next page.”

She turned the page. Bolton’s arrest record was there, too, along with his mug shot. He looked like an average university student. Plain features, brown hair. The mug shot was too small to tell what colour his eyes were, but it was enough to see the cocky smirk. In Brienne’s experience suspects either looked scared, like Sansa did, or arrogant, like Bolton did.

Hyle began talking while she skimmed the report. “He comes from one of those Northern agitator families. Long history of this kind of thing. His father is some kind of political powerbroker, not vocal like General Karstark, but still well-known in certain circles. It’s likely that’s why they were arrested. Her sentence was suspended and seems like her parents hired a good lawyer to get most of it suppressed. Don’t know how long they were together or when they split up, but I’m still looking. If I find anything else, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you for all this,” she said, closing the folder. She’d have to look at it in more detail later. “Did you give Jaime a copy?” She asked it knowing full-well that she’d asked for his discretion. But with her earpiece in, and the camera pinned to her chest pointing directly at the files she’d been reading, it was impossible to keep it a secret any longer.

“On my way to him now,” he said quickly, possibly _too_ quickly, but there was nothing for it now. If Jaime was going to be upset that they’d left him out of the loop, well… “Once I’ve got the rest of what you requested, I’ll get it to you as soon as possible. _And_ Lannister too.”

Hyle gave her a little mock salute, then disappeared back into the backstage crowd, leaving Brienne to return to Varys. He looked down at her indulgently, “A break in the case, I hope?”

She shook her head. “A lead, at best.”

“_You should talk to Sansa, see if you can find out more about this guy_.” Jaime said in her ear.

“Yeah,” she agreed, racking her brain trying to think of how she would be able to bring him up without hurting the girl any further. It was very clear that their breakup hadn’t been amicable, and she didn’t want to dredge up anything bad unnecessarily.

But then again, if it was the lead that helped them catch The Stranger, a few hurt feelings would be worth it in the end, right?

She turned to Varys. “Do you need me at all tonight?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Though you should try to get as much sleep as possible to be fresh for tomorrow.”

Brienne waved that away. There would be time to sleep when all this was over. One way or another, the competition would be over by this time tomorrow. She needed to stay focussed. She had to get answers as quickly as she could. How could she possibly--then it came to her. “I have an idea,” she said, to Jaime and Varys both.

Varys raised an eyebrow, and in her ear Jaime made a soft noise, encouraging her to go on.

“I think it’s time I got to know my fellow contestants a little better.”


End file.
